100 Days
by Seema
Summary: In the aftermath of of "Unimatrix Zero," the crew of Voyager deals with the absence and return of Janeway, Torres and Tuvok. Some P/T, mostly Paris.


100 Days  
  
Characters and places belong to the Paramount. This is based on the episode "Unimatrix Zero."  
  
This was supposed to be a short scene expansion, but it has grown into something else completely. I hope it works. If not, it was fun to write anyway.  
  
****  
I'm going to kill her.  
  
If the Borg don't kill her, I most certainly will.  
  
If she survives, that is.  
  
I can't imagine Voyager without her but I cannot imagine how she will survive the Borg either.  
  
But then, my darling half-Klingon doesn't seem concerned about life with the Collective; rather, her lips turn upward in a curl of anticipation.   
I suspect the Borg don't stand a chance; one wrong word and they will end up on the wrong end of the bat'leth. I should know - I've been there many times myself.  
  
Of course, I know when I'm licked, know when I ought to give up; once B'Elanna has made up her mind, my stubborn darling is intractable. Her jaw grows tight, her eyes hard and glassy, and you can almost smell the fire in her nostrils.   
  
Telling her what to do is about as easy as convincing a Hirogen that the hunt is   
a dead-end, a biological and cultural suicide.   
  
Janeway looks perfectly calm as if deciding to become one with the Borg is as easy to decide between Colombian black or a French roast. She is leaning back in her chair, slightly turned towards Chakotay, her fingers rapping gently on the table.  
  
"Are we clear?" she asks in that gravely voice. Her gaze sweeps over us, her eyes asking not only for obedience but also for understanding.  
  
"Crystal," I offer helpfully when no one else speaks. Kim is looking at some spot over Seven's shoulder while Chakotay is looking down at his hands. Only Tuvok and B'Elanna seem alert, almost as if in a state of over-excitement.  
  
"Good," Janeway stands. "B'Elanna, Tuvok, we meet in the shuttlebay in three hours. Tom, go over the Delta Flyer. Make sure it's ready. I don't want to take any chances."  
  
"Yes, ma'am," I give her jaunty little salute and she smiles back at me.   
  
"Dismissed," Janeway says, but this time her voice is softer, a bit more gentle.   
  
I wonder if she is regretting her decision, wonder if she wants to go back; but I know Kathryn Janeway. She makes her decisions, sticks by them, and then takes no time for regrets.   
  
Of course, there is a first time for everything.  
  
We spill out into the hall and I pause for B'Elanna. She offers me a cautious half-smile, almost as if she is afraid to speak.   
  
"You want to check out the Flyer with me?" I ask. She nods. Her hand brushes mine, a casual yet intimate gesture. I want to grab her hand, intertwine my fingers with hers and beg her to stay; if I bow to the impulse though, she will most probably rip out my heart and eat it in front of me.  
  
No surprise there; she does that on a daily basis.  
  
B'Elanna cocks her head slightly to one side, her eyes bright.  
  
"I suppose," she says. "I have a little time before we go."  
  
We walk shoulder to shoulder down the corridor; I want to put my arm around her waist, but propriety constrains me.  
  
"It's not fair," I say. "You get to go to all the best vacation spots."  
  
"A Borg cube is hardly a vacation spot, Tom," she says in her best preachy tone.   
  
She moves slightly away from me, her gaze straight ahead; if I didn't know better, I would think she was trying to avoid me. But I do know B'Elanna and know she has trouble saying those things she wants to say at the right time. And I know from experience that she has to be at death's door before her heart gets into the action.  
  
"I've never been on a Borg cube," she says. "I imagine it would be exciting."  
  
"That's one way to put it but not the way I would describe it," I answer, remembering my recent excursion on a Borg vessel.  
  
We continue on, a comfortable silence settling over us. I get the feeling sometimes we are an old married couple, as broken in as a pair of favorite shoes. Words aren't necessary; we have moved past the stage where we need to fill every space of silence with words, useful or otherwise. There is no more shyness; we say what we need to when we need to.   
  
B'Elanna clears her throat and I turn to look at her, but sure enough, her gaze is everywhere but on me.  
  
"Don't watch too much television while I'm gone," B'Elanna says in an authoritative voice. "Especially not those `I Love Lucy' episodes."  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"And don't spend too much time in the holodeck playing Captain Proton," her voice softens. "Or maybe..."  
  
She stops, bites her lip, and looks at me. I lean against the opposite wall of the corridor, not even measuring the rapidly growing distance between us. It seems, in some ways, she is already gone, already assimilated, already one of them.   
  
"Any more instructions?" I tease her.  
  
Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare slightly.  
  
"No," her voice is barely audible. I cross over to her, take her elbow in my palm, and point down the hall.  
  
"The Flyer?" I remind her. B'Elanna takes a deep breath and nods. She lets me lead her down the corridors, onto the turbo lift, and finally into the shuttle bay.  
  
The Delta Flyer shines in the dim lighting; it should, I went over every inch of her in my last break. Of course B'Elanna had been upset, throwing a temper tantrum every bit worthy of her. Damn if the woman wasn't jealous of the Flyer.   
I tried to explain, tell her that every man needed his toys, and the Flyer happened to be mine. Her retort went along the lines of hadn't I learned my lesson with Alice? Or what about Steth? Then she threw in that she was tired of my "do first, ask forgiveness later" type attitude. On and on she went, endlessly, it seemed and all of my blood drained to my feet. By the time I stumbled out of her quarters, I was numb from the waist down.  
  
Twelve long-stemmed roses ended that argument plus an exotic dinner in the holodeck, using rations begged, borrowed, and um, stolen, from various members of the crew who had it in their best interests to keep B'Elanna in a good mood.  
  
Now, B'Elanna circles the Flyer with a contemplative eye. Her fingers brush the hull lightly, stroking it absent-mindedly. I watch her, seeing her petite figure turn the corner and she is lost from view.  
  
"B'Elanna?" I call out.  
  
She comes around the other side of the Flyer, her expression serious.  
  
"Yes?" she queries, leaning one shoulder against the shuttle.  
  
"Are you sure?" I ask. "You know what you're doing?"  
  
"This won't succeed without me," she answers.  
  
"Janeway's plan means you'll be assimilated."  
  
"I know that."  
  
There are about a thousand things I could say now, but none of them would mean quite the right thing. I could tell her I don't want her to go, but she would arch an eyebrow at me, fix me with that piercing glance and sneer.   
  
And I suppose I would prefer that sort of reaction; sentimentality does not become B'Elanna. She likes to be hard to reach, emotionally distant, and only in those rare moments we share, she softens beneath my touch. She wears her temper like a mystique, keeping those who might care at an arm's length distance. She says everything on her mind but confesses nothing.  
  
If I cared less, this might bother me, but I've come to know B'Elanna and to truly love her is to accept who she is, no more, no less. There are no expectations and no guarantees. I take what I can, give what she will accept.   
  
"The Flyer?" she asks with a smile. "By the way, it looks really nice. You did good."  
  
"Thanks," I answer.   
  
She punches in the codes and the door opens. B'Elanna enters, crouching to avoid bumping her head on the frame. I stand there for a moment, contemplating all those things I could do to keep B'Elanna with me and then she calls for me.  
  
"Sorry," I say. Inside the cockpit, she has already taken one of the chairs and is absorbed in her work. She complains about my toys, but I have a thing or two to say about her engines. Beneath her skillful hands, they purr and hum; I know the feeling.  
  
"I'm aligning the plasma manifolds," she mutters under her breath. "Tom, if you could recalibrate the main relays, then I can set the upper levels here."  
  
"Your wish is my command," I tell her gallantly. She doesn't look at me. My fingers fly across the console and I revel in the instinct that allows me to manipulate the innermost workings of the Flyer; I know every inch of this ship, every little circuit, ever isolinear chip. I know its moods, good and bad, and I love them all without question.  
  
I run the diagnostic, primary first, giving me the overall snapshot of the Flyer's condition; the secondary diagnostic is a little more specific, producing more detailed information.   
  
"Watch the starboard plasma injectors," I say. "They tend to run a little hot at high impulse."   
  
"I'll keep an eye on it," B'Elanna says.   
  
"And the warp matrix is out of alignment."   
  
"By 0.3 microns. Since when are you so meticulous?" A note of disbelief creeps into B'Elanna's voice.  
  
"Since you volunteered for this insane mission," I answer. "You know...I could sabotage the helm. You'd never make it out the launch doors."   
  
"Then I'd have to put you on report. You might lose that new pip of yours," she says in a smug tone of voice.   
  
I take what I can get and B'Elanna's sense of humor prompts me to leave my seat to whisper in her ear, "It'd be a small price to pay."   
  
I wait only a second, pausing to inhale her musky scent, and then I retreat to my own seat, watching and waiting.  
  
B'Elanna waits only a moment more before turning around. She is smiling, revealing two rows of sharp, slightly-crooked teeth; teeth which have broken my skin at the shoulder, arm, thigh, and countless other places where she has left her mark. Bruises on my wrists, my stomach and neck, and the scratches on my back - they all proclaim me as hers. I wonder if she ever looks across the table during a senior staff meeting knowing what she has done to me. I know I remember every mark I put on her body, memorizing each detail of her, from the curve of her hip to the swell of her breast, and of course, that gentle little dip at the base of her neck.  
  
"You understand, don't you, Tom?" she pleads.  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I don't want you to go."  
  
"I got that," she smiles. "Loud and clear. But I outrank you still."  
  
"This has nothing to do with rank," I tell her. "Don't you understand that?"  
  
"I know you're worried, but I can't let the captain go without me. She needs me to help spread the virus."  
  
"Do you realize how crazy this plan is?"  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"You want to be assimilated?"  
  
"It's the only way," she reclines in her chair, her hand running through her hair. "Think about it, Tom."  
  
"I have been thinking about it," I argue back. I lean forward, my hands on my knees. "Have you even thought about what assimilation means?"  
  
"I talked to Seven about it. She says it's not very painful."  
  
I laugh bitterly.  
  
"Seven would say that. She used to assimilate people before breakfast."  
  
"That's not a fair thing to say."  
  
I sigh, "I just want you to understand what's going on. What if we don't get to   
you in time? What if you're a drone forever?"  
  
"Then that's my decision, isn't it?"  
  
"Are you running away?"  
  
She laughs at me, baring those teeth once again. She squares her shoulders back, drawing herself to her full height. No slouching for my lady, no indeed.  
  
"Running away? To the Borg? Really, Tom. This isn't the circus."  
  
"That's not I mean."  
  
"I know what you mean and you're wrong."  
  
"I'm worried. I think this plan is crazy. I think you're crazy."  
  
B'Elanna stands up.  
  
"You won't change my mind."  
  
"I know," I rise and cross over to her in two strides. "I've known that from the beginning."  
  
I cup her jaw in my hand and she leans into me, her forehead nearly resting on my chin. She is pliant in my embrace. I let out a breath. A truce then. When words fail us, physical contact always restores us. It's a sad but undeniable truth.   
  
"I will miss you," I whisper.  
  
B'Elanna sighs and presses herself closer against me; my arms snake around her slender body, my hands resting on the small of her back.  
  
"Don't," she says.   
  
"I'll be waiting for you."  
  
"I hope so," she says. "Keep the light on for me, okay?"  
  
I pull away and put my fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look at me.   
  
"If Seven says it's not so bad, then she must be right," I say, mentally apologizing to Seven of Nine for my earlier denigration of her previous occupation as a Borg drone.   
  
"It is a little crazy," B'Elanna admits. "I'm half out of my mind thinking about it."  
  
I don't blame her for her trepidation. The whole plan is sketchy, at best. Infiltrate the Borg cube, get assimilated, spread the virus, communicate through Unimatrix Zero, Voyager to the rescue and then the Doctor can make history by "de-assimilating" Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna. At least that's the plan in a nutshell; there are details, but I can't be bothered with those details. The detail I'm most concerned about stands in front of me, evidently unperturbed by the thought of giant steel tubules piercing her neck.  
  
I try not to think of all the things that can - and will - go wrong. What if the Borg Queen instead orders their execution? What if they cannot communicate with Voyager?  
  
There is no doubt in my mind that B'Elanna will be different if - when - they return. How that will affect our relationship certainly bothers me in an incredibly selfish way.  
  
"Just come back in one piece," I tell her. "We'll work on the rest when you're back, okay?"  
  
She nods in relief; apparently she is thinking the same thing.  
  
"Don't spend too much time with Harry on the holodeck," she says. She closes her eyes and presses her cheek against my chin. I brush the top of her head with my lips.   
  
"I won't," I tell her.   
  
"Promise?" her voice is barely above a whisper now.  
  
"Yes, of course," my hand reaches to intertwine my fingers with hers. She lifts her head and I take the opportunity to kiss her. B'Elanna smiles and touches my   
cheek with her fingers.  
  
"I don't regret what I'm doing," she says. "No matter what happens, I don't regret it."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Assimilation can't be that bad, can't it?" she asks shakily. "Seven says... and I know what you think, but she says it was very comforting to have those other voices in her head, to think as a whole rather than as a part. To belong to something unconditionally."  
  
"Sounds like you're looking forward to it?"  
  
"I wouldn't quite put it that way," she says with a smile. Her fingers trail down my cheek, down my neck, before resting on my shoulder. "I will be glad when we finally come home."  
  
I lean in for another kiss and this time, she wraps her arms around my neck.  
  
"Wait for me," she says between kisses.   
  
"I will," I answer. Our lips part and she breaks away, returning to her seat.   
  
"Where were we?" she asks casually as if these last five minutes never happened.   
Her face is completely composed, though she does rub a fist across her cheek. I don't point this gesture out; any observation of weakness is automatically grounds for skewering on the end of her ceremonial mek'leth.   
  
"I will telling you to watch the warp matrix," I say, sliding back into my chair.  
  
"Oh yes," she says briskly. "I appreciate the alert, thanks."  
  
After a few minutes of silent working, B'Elanna turns around.  
  
"Done?" I ask her.  
  
"Done," she affirms, nodding her head. She tips her head to one side, her eyes unusually bright. "Tom, I don't think I told you, but I'm proud of you. You really earned the promotion and, uh, you've come a long way."  
  
The sentiment is nicely expressed without bite, without a hint of sarcasm. Just plain and simple, purely B'Elanna. The B'Elanna only I'm allowed to see; the one who is quiet and gentle, shy and demure. If I told anyone about this B'Elanna, they would never believe me and she would eat me alive without any remorse. In fact, she would probably ask Neelix to whip up a blood pie to eat afterwards.  
  
But that is giving my heartless darling too little credit. Most likely, she would simply turn her back to me, ignoring me, until I came to my senses and begged for her forgiveness on no less than bended knee.   
  
"Not quite a pig anymore?" I ask.  
  
B'Elanna offers me a shy smile, "Did I call you that? No, certainly not."  
  
I nod, swallowing hard. B'Elanna brushes her palm across her face, rises and stretches.  
  
"I should get ready to go," she says.   
  
"I imagine you don't have much to pack," I say in jest. "I hear the Borg pack light."  
  
She gives me a withering look. I try to imagine her lithe frame encased in the black stiff armor favored by the Borg and of course, those tubes which sprout out of all orifices for God only knows what reasons. I think of her hot-tempered blood swimming with nanoprobes and wonder what a thousand voices in her head will do to her.  
  
"Tom," she says reproachfully. She exits the Delta Flyer and stands there, waiting for me, her arms crossed on her chest.   
  
I take one more look at the Delta Flyer; she is a beautiful ship. Reflexively, I touch the hull before B'Elanna pulls me away.  
  
"Don't think about it too much," she whispers. "We'll build another ship when I return. I promise."  
  
I want to tell her that the Delta Flyer doesn't matter; that its destruction makes no difference to me. It's a toy, nothing more, nothing less. I think about telling B'Elanna this, but I know she won't believe me; there's nothing B'Elanna hates more than facing the truth.  
  
Sometimes I look at her when she is sleeping, curled up, her knees almost to her chest, her palm against her lips. It's almost as if she is closing herself off to me even in those moments when we should be most intimate. On occasion, she rolls over and places her palm lightly on my hip, but I doubt she knows what she is doing. Once, I woke up and found her staring up at the ceiling, her hands behind her head. I propped myself up on one elbow and asked her what she was thinking.  
  
"Nothing," she said. "Just a million things and all of them are jumbled together."  
  
I traced my finger down her jaw, "Could you focus one thing?"  
  
She turned to face me, "You, I suppose?"  
  
"That would be nice."  
  
She sighed, pushed off the covers, and got out of bed.  
  
"Not everything is about you, Tom," she said quietly. She put on her robe and sat down on the chair, watching me. "Don't you ever think about what's going to   
  
happen to us?"  
  
"All the time. I imagine mostly good things."  
  
"You would," scorn dripped from her voice. "But I think about all the bad   
things."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
She shrugged, "You know... all the things that could possibly go wrong. I imagine what I would feel like if they actually happened."  
  
"Why?" I couldn't help asking.  
  
B'Elanna's eyes, always luminous and opaque, shined back at me. She blinked a couple times.  
  
"Does it make me a terrible person?" she asked.  
  
"No, it just makes me worried about you."  
  
"Good," she sighed as if my concern was necessary to her well-being. She ran a hand through her hair and then leaned her head against the seat back. "I just want to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Whatever happens, I want to be prepared. It won't hurt as much that way."  
  
Now I place my fingers beneath B'Elanna's chin and gently lift so her eyes meet mine.  
  
"Is this a worst case scenario?" I whisper.  
  
"It's one of them," she admits. "But not quite the way I expected."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No," she says. She takes my arm and nearly pulls me out of the shuttle bay. Out in the corridor, we collide with a couple crewmen; we make quick apologies and   
  
B'Elanna is pushing me into another corridor.  
  
"I'm only going to say this once, helmboy," her lower jaw is trembling now. "I intend to come back."  
  
Our faces are inches apart and I place my hands on her cheeks.  
  
"The Borg don't stand a chance," I whisper, wishing, hoping, praying I can believe my own words.  
  
Our lips meet. She clings to me, pressing tighter against until I can feel her permeating every pore of my body.   
  
After a minute, she releases me.  
  
"I have to go," she mumbles. She turns and flees, leaving me there in the corridor, rubbing my lips.  
  
****  
It has been six days, seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes since we last recorded life signs for Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna.  
  
Sometimes I stand next to the windows in the mess hall, looking out at the great expanse of space and wondering where in the Delta Quadrant are our missing people?   
  
Chakotay is grim; he sits in the Captain's Ready Room, his shoulders slumping, his hair sometimes flipping over his forehead, nearly obscuring his tattoo. I take this unusual unkempt appearance to mean that the acting Captain is not sleeping.   
  
Seven confirms this theory when she appears suddenly at my side in the mess hall.  
"I have not yet seen the Captain and the others," she says. "Everyday, there are fewer drones at Unimatrix Zero."  
  
"I wish you wouldn't call them drones," I answer shortly.  
  
"You sound like Commander Chakotay," she says. "He has developed a new respect for the Borg."  
  
I give a snort.  
  
"Only because of the Captain and the others," I say.   
  
"He is in the cargo bay nearly every night," Seven's forehead creases. "Should I alert the Doctor?"  
  
"No," I say.   
  
Seven shrugs her slender shoulders in a fluid gesture. I turn to her, wondering what she is thinking behind those impassive features. Except for the occasional sneer in her voice, the quirk of an eyebrow, it is impossible to ever truly read Seven of Nine. She remains as cryptic to me today as she did that first day when she boarded Voyager as a drone.  
  
"What does it feel like to be Borg?" I ask abruptly. Seven lifts her eyebrow.  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"I was just curious."  
  
"You are concerned about Lieutenant Torres."  
  
"That is true," I admit.   
  
Seven cocks her head slightly to the side. We make an odd reflection in the glass, the two of us, former Borg and human. I shake my head, trying to erase the abrupt image of B'Elanna in full Borg regalia.  
  
"It is peaceful," Seven says finally.   
  
"Even with all those voices?"  
  
"Yes. It is safe."  
  
"I can see how that would be," I tell her bitterly.  
  
"It is calm," Seven continues as if I had never spoken.   
  
"Sounds like Risa."  
  
Seven's eyes open wide.  
  
"Lieutenant, you are mistaken. It is nothing like Risa," she says without a trace of irony. I still have not learned yet, after all these years, that my sense of humor is completely wasted on Seven. She does turn her head slightly towards me and say in her most reassuring tone, "But it is not unpleasant."  
  
We stand there in silence for a couple more minutes and then I summon the courage to ask yet another question.  
  
"Does it hurt to be assimilated?"  
  
"I do not recall my assimilation," Seven says thoughtfully. "I remember being frightened but that is all. There was no pain that I can recall."  
  
It is only then that I realize I have been holding my breath.  
  
"When you assimilated people, how did it feel?"  
  
"I had a similar conversation with Lieutenant Torres before she departed," Seven says.  
  
"She mentioned something about that," I answer.  
  
"Lieutenant Torres was intrigued by assimilation. She wondered if she would have to assimilate anyone."  
  
Ah B'Elanna, the things you don't share with me.   
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I answered in the affirmative. It is the duty of every drone to contribute to the overall perfection of the Collective. Once she was assimilated, she would be expected to fulfill those obligations."  
  
"That sounds like a lot of propaganda to me," I say.  
  
"You are entitled to your opinion, Lieutenant," she says the last word with obvious condescension.  
  
"Thank you for that," I say, irritation creeping into my voice. "You never answered my question about what it felt like to assimilate someone."  
  
"It is difficult to separate duty from emotion," she says. "Individuals focus too much on emotion. As a drone, I did not have that burden."  
  
"Well?" I ask impatiently. I have this nightmarish vision of B'Elanna, in black armor and metallic accessories, extending those long tubules into the neck of another being. I can't imagine B'Elanna, who experiences a different emotion for every moment of the day, to mindlessly subjugate species without feeling a slight tinge of pity, anger, compassion - anything at all but certainly not this brisk efficiency that characterizes Seven.  
  
B'Elanna's blood runs hot as Seven runs cold. I wonder how much of a temper young Annika Hansen would have developed and then it occurs to me that the B'Elanna who comes back to Voyager may be cool and utterly inaccessible.  
  
"Lieutenant?" Seven says.  
  
In the background, the volume of conversation rises as one shift ends and another begins. In general, it has been quiet since Janeway left; waiting is painful for those left behind.  
"You asked how I felt about assimilation," she says. "Specifically, how I felt."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I have an answer for you."  
  
I look at Seven and if I did not know better, I would think she was uncomfortable, perturbed, disturbed - call it what you will - but it's Seven as I've never seen her before.  
  
"We led individuals to a level of perfection otherwise unavailable to them. It was... an honor."  
  
"Do you still think it's an honor?"  
  
Seven takes a deep breath. I watch in fascination as a shadow ripples over her face as she struggles to hold in her emotions. Composed and serene once again,   
  
Seven says flatly, "I am no longer a drone yet I believe there is value to a collective existence."  
  
"But not in the Borg?"  
  
Seven says, "I do not know the answer to that question."  
  
Her tone is that of surprise, as if she did not expect such difficult questioning from me. I imagine I asked the questions she has been dreading, the ones whose answers are elusive, since being Borg is an integral part of her existence.  
  
Seven of Nine has come a long way, but there is still a distance she needs to   
cover.  
  
"I will report to the cargo bay now for regeneration," she says. "And I will attempt to contact Unimatrix Zero again. Tonight, perhaps, we will talk to the Captain."  
  
She spins around and exits the mess hall, her swan neck held high. I place my hand on the glass, pressing my weight against the window until my forehead nearly touches it.   
  
At times like this you can't help but feel a little crazy. With her, without her, the result is still the same. I hate that she has this effect on me, that my every waking moment is consumed by B'Elanna Torres. I wish I could say she thinks of me in the same way but sometimes I get the feeling she regards me with the same neutrality one would view a limb. Yes, that is me, Tom Paris, appendage of B'Elanna Torres, nothing more, nothing less.  
  
****  
  
//She always knows how to show off her best side. It looks casual, but I know it is practiced and all for my benefit. And after all these years, she still manages to surprise me.   
  
I take in the shimmering red material of her bathing suit and then my eyes drop down to her waist where a gold tissue shawl is wrapped around her.   
  
"This isn't what I expected," I tell her as sand squishes up between my toes.   
  
"I told you to come prepared for the sun," she replies.  
  
"But this," I wave my hand to indicate our surroundings. B'Elanna is an engineer first and foremost; her devotion is to engines, not to holodeck program design. Her programs, in general, are very straight-forward, rarely without complication and intrigue. But this, this beach with its lightly swaying palm trees, white sand, and the crash of waves on the shore, is unusual for B'Elanna; it is softer, more romantic than anything I've seen her produce before.  
  
"Are you surprised?" she asks coyly.  
  
"Very much so," I admit. I look around, my hands akimbo on my hips. "This is great, B'Elanna. Did Harry help you?"  
  
Her nostrils flare slightly as she shakes her head.  
  
"No, I did it all," she says. "Took a long time, but I got it just the way I imagined it."  
  
"It's the Virgin Islands," I realize.   
  
She nods, heat rising in her cheeks, "Do you like it? I got it from those pictures in your personal database."  
  
"You did this for me?"  
  
"Don't get carried away, Tom. You deserve a vacation, somewhere nice to relax after all you have been through."  
  
"I appreciate it," I say.   
  
"Who is the girl?" she asks. "The one in the pictures?"  
  
I try to recall the name. Mary, Marie, Miriam. Sweet girl, nice smile, great legs.   
  
"Miriam," I say. "She was a classmate of mine at the Academy. Her idea to go to the Virgin Islands."  
  
"You look very happy together."  
  
Jealousy? B'Elanna? I shake my head. Doesn't suit her at all. But it surprises me, yes, that B'Elanna could feel threatened by someone whose last name I can't even remember.  
  
"We broke up when we came back," I say. "Bad idea in the first place."  
B'Elanna looks relieved and I wonder how much of my past is going to come back to haunt us.  
  
B'Elanna covers the distance between us in quick strides and then pushes me down onto one of the lawn chairs.   
  
"I'm sorry," I tell her.  
  
"Don't be sorry," she says as she straddles my hips, her hands on my shoulder, her mouth tantalizingly close to mine.  
  
"I shouldn't have pushed you away. You were right."  
  
"It's all right, Tom. Really, it is."  
  
"It seemed so real... you understand, right?"  
  
"I understand about the Memorial, Tom. You don't have to explain," her breath flutters over my skin. I inhale deeply, sucking in her scent. My hands move to the small of her back as she settles herself down on my upper thighs.  
  
"I really thought I was responsible for the deaths of those people, for starting the whole thing. I just couldn't explain, B'Elanna, and I'm sorry about that."  
  
Her hand moves up my neck, to my cheek, and finally, her fingers are in my hair. My breath catches in my throat.  
  
"I appreciate this," I say hoarsely.  
  
She kisses me, "You're welcome."  
  
I tighten my grip on her as she leans into me, her head neatly resting on my shoulder, her hand now back down to the nape of my neck.  
  
This is how it should be, I muse as I trail my fingers through her hair. I feel the silky strands against my skin, her steady breathing as her chest rises and falls against mine.  
  
"Do you think we did the right thing by not shutting down the Memorial?" I ask.  
B'Elanna lifts her head and looks me squarely in the eye. She puts a finger to my lips and smiles seductively as she rearranges her limbs across my body.  
  
"Let's not talk about that," she whispers. Her lips brush my jawbone, my neck, my shoulder...  
  
"B'Elanna," I say, trying to shift her weight. She looks at me again and then   
her lips meet mine.  
  
In between kisses, she gasps out, "Let me in, Tom. Please." \\  
  
I wake with a shudder, my heart racing. I sit up, leaning back on my palms. It was all so real, the dream that is. I look over to the side of the bed knowing that B'Elanna is not there and it has been twenty-four days since B'Elanna slept here.  
  
Oh yes. B'Elanna doesn't live here anymore. She moved, left no forwarding address.  
  
I calm myself, trying to recall some of Tuvok's meditation exercises. One, breathe, two, breathe, three, breathe, four...  
  
"Computer, time," my mouth is dry and gritty. The glass of water, always by my bedside, is empty. Oh yes, B'Elanna is the one who fills it, B'Elanna who never forgets little things like this.  
  
"The time is 0213 hours," the computer voice informs me.   
  
I lay back, my hands behind my neck. I wonder what B'Elanna is doing right now. I try not to think of the possibility that scares me the most: the thought that she might actually participate in an assimilation.   
  
Tuvok. I smile at the thought that the Vulcan might be imparting his meditation techniques on the Borg - a species which certainly does not need such measures to maintain their equanimity; if they were any more calm, they would be catatonic.   
  
Janeway, I have no doubt, is trying her best to antagonize the Borg Queen; that is, if Janeway remembers who she is, who she was.  
  
I shiver, roll over on to my side and grab the other pillow, hugging it close to me.   
  
// "I can't believe how into this holodeck program you are," she speaks quietly, but her tone is that of restrained fury; I know when I'm licked. B'Elanna, for all her attributes, lacks the gene for humor and fun. Her seriousness, while well-matched with my frivolity, tends to cloud our relationship at time; which is why I tend to act out my holodeck capers without her.   
  
But I should have known, should have known I was in trouble even before I walked into her quarters. The atmosphere is positively calm, and B'Elanna is unusually tranquil. For other people, this would be good; for me, it's a sign of bad things to come.   
  
At least she is not yelling. Her voice levels are carefully modulated as she enunciates with pinpoint clarity. Forgiveness is a real possibility here.  
  
"This is the best thing Harry and I have ever done," I say. "It's a real village with real characters. Do you know how complicated it was to write?"  
  
"I know," she says. "Writing it ate up all your free time. I've hardly seen you in the last two weeks, Tom. I hate it when you do this. You find something new and amusing and you leave me out of it."  
  
"I am sorry, B'Elanna. You're welcome to come to Fair Haven tonight."  
I might as well have mentioned another trip to Grethor; the look she gives me is positively crippling.   
  
"At least see what it's about," I plead. "Even the Captain comes."  
  
"I have other things to do," she says as she starts piling up the PADDs scattered on the table. "There are a million things that need to be done in Engineering..."  
  
"But are they things you need to do?" I ask.  
  
She whips her head around so fast I'm afraid she might have cracked a neck vertebra.  
  
"I take my responsibilities on this ship very seriously, Tom," she says.   
  
"As do I. All I'm asking is that you spend some time with me in Fair Haven. I think you would like it."  
  
"I don't know," she purses her lips in what I jokingly refer to as her "school ma'rm expression."   
  
"Come on, B'Elanna," I pull her close to me and I take it as a good sign that she doesn't pull away. Amazingly enough, she is soft and relaxed. I lift her chin and kiss her.  
  
"Tom, you can't always weasel your way out of situations like this," she murmurs. I push her up against the table; she sits on the edge and the PADDs clatter to the floor. "Tom, look what you did."  
  
My hands are everywhere, my lips against hers.  
  
"We'll clean up later," I whisper. \\  
  
I wake, the blankets are tangled up in my legs. Perspiration beads on my forehead, shoulders and back. I sniff the air and decide I need a shower. I push the covers aside and strip my clothes off as I make my way into the sonic shower. I active it, letting the pulsating beam massage every cell of my body.   
  
In my dreams - the "when we return to the Alpha Quadrant dreams" - I long for a real shower, a water shoulder. I love the pressure of water against my skin, brushing away the grime, relaxing me through and through. Of course that is a luxury on starships and starbases, but once back on Earth, it is the first thing I want.  
  
// "I've been thinking about what we should do once we get back to the Alpha Quadrant," I tell B'Elanna one evening at dinner. "We can get a house in San Francisco. It's a great city."  
  
"I hated it," she says. "Everyone is Starfleet there. Too many rules."  
  
"We can get something outside of the city."  
  
"That's provided we don't get sent to separate penal colonies."  
  
"I don't expect that to happen."  
  
B'Elanna stirs her food with her fork and then put it down.  
  
"So you expect this to be a... long-term thing?"  
  
After all this time, I cannot believe she would ask such a question. Doesn't she know? Doesn't she feel like I feel?   
  
"I just assumed..." I mutter.  
  
She reaches across the table to cover my hand with hers.  
  
"A house in San Francisco with a real water shower..." she says quietly. "It sounds like a plan." \\  
  
  
The sonic shower turns itself off with a slight squeal and whimper. I reach for my uniform.  
  
"Computer, time?"  
  
"The time is 0532 hours."  
  
Sleep is not an option; B'Elanna, temptress that she is, will be back to haunt me again. Night after night, she is there in my mind, and during the day, she is never far from my thoughts.  
  
Even the holodeck cannot remove the gnawing in my stomach; I cannot swallow because I think of B'Elanna who cannot eat now.   
  
Dressed and with my hair fairly tamed, I walk down the corridors of Voyager. At this time, it is fairly quiet. All faces are familiar, but are not the ones I would share my deepest thoughts and feelings with.   
  
The mess hall is softly illuminated; only about four or five people are there, sipping warm beverages and talking in low voices. I turn on my foot and head towards the Bridge.  
  
Everything is calm on the Bridge as I survey it with what I hope is a professional, competent look. No one really takes note of my presence and I notice with a bit of trepidation that Chakotay is not here and neither is Kim.  
  
Back in the turbolift, I lean against the curved wall.  
  
I don't know where I'm going or who I'm looking for. It sounds crazy, but it's true. It's not like I can open a door on Voyager and erupt into space and find all the answers there, so I've got to do my seeking here.  
  
Quiet perturbs me. It reaches within me and stirs up emotions that something is not quite right. And the answer to what's wrong with Voyager is so obvious that it does not merit mentioning; it is unspoken but universal.  
  
The cargo bay is dark except for the green glow above the Borg alcoves. I find a seat on a crate and watch them - Seven and the children - regenerating. I wonder if Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna will sleep standing up when they return.  
  
For my own selfish reasons, I certainly hope not.   
  
At precisely 0700 hours, the former Borg drones awaken and step out of their alcoves, fully awake and ready to attack - or rather, face - the new day.  
  
"Lieutenant Paris," Seven says.   
  
"Good morning, Seven," I inject a note of cheerfulness into my voice; no one wants to see a sourpuss first thing in the morning. Seven turns to the children and in that weird unspoken connection they posses, the children filter out of the cargo bay.  
  
"Is something wrong, Lieutenant?" Seven asks.  
  
"I couldn't sleep," I say.  
  
"You should see the Doctor," Seven says firmly.  
  
"I'm afraid of dreaming."  
  
She arches an eyebrow at me, questioning without words.  
  
"I think about B'Elanna all the time. I can't help myself. I'm worried about her," I feel silly telling all this to Seven, but for once she appears approachable and concerned. "It goes beyond worry, Seven. I can't put a word on it or a description of what it's like, but it plagues me."  
  
"Do you feel the same for the others? For Captain Janeway? Commander Tuvok?"  
  
"Yes, of course. I am worried about them."  
  
"But not in the same way as Lieutenant Torres."  
  
"No," I admit. "I love B'Elanna, Seven. I can't help myself, but I do. And it makes me crazy that she is somewhere I can't protect her."  
  
"What makes you think B'Elanna needs protecting?" the voice comes from behind. I whirl around to see Chakotay, his face drawn, bags beneath his eyes.  
  
"We have a job to do, Tom, and that's to get the Captain and the others back as soon as possible," Chakotay says. "I promise, B'Elanna will be back."  
  
B'Elanna said the same thing the day she left. "I intend to come back," she said.  
  
I swallow hard. Chakotay looks at Seven and she instinctively knows the answer to his question.  
  
"No," she says. "They were not at Unimatrix Zero last night."  
  
"Keep trying," Chakotay says. "They're bound to make contact soon."  
  
He hopes, I hope, she hopes; we all hope. If we chant it all at once, all together, all day, maybe it will work. Hope turns to reality and we all live happily ever after.  
  
"If not?" I can't help but ask. What if they did not accomplish their mission? What if they did not spread the virus? What if... fill in the blank yourself - the possibilities are endless and none are good.  
  
"Then we attack," Chakotay says grimly. "I intend to get them all back. Alive."  
  
Terrific. Voyager versus the Borg cube and even on a good day, I would put my money on the cube.  
  
****  
The choice is not good: leola root stew or leola root burgers. I do not question Neelix, only allow him to load my place with both options.  
  
"Sorry," he says. "We're running short on rations lately and leola is all I have."  
  
I lean forward, "If you don't fix that, you will have a mutiny soon."  
  
"I know," Neelix looks sad, a bit downtrodden. His facial expression mimics that of everyone else on board. Apparently frowns are cheap but smiles are available at a premium.   
  
I take my plate and sit down with Harry who is picking at his leola root concoctions.  
  
"Interesting," he says.   
  
"You're too kind," I say, wrinkling my nose. It smells foul, to be completely honest.  
  
"I can't eat this stuff," Harry's fork clatters to his plate. "I try but I can't."  
  
"I know the feeling," but I make an attempt at it. In general, my stomach churns and flips whenever I look or smell at food. The Doctor assures me that the nausea will pass but I doubt it. Anxiety is eating me up inside.  
  
"What do you think of Chakotay's plan to attack the Borg?" Harry asks. I put my fork down. Harry asks a good question but I don't have a good answer to give him. To tell the truth, I cannot tell how serious Chakotay is about attacking the Borg; it seems crazy to me.  
  
Crazy or not, Janeway would hate the idea; of that I'm positive, but she left Voyager in Chakotay's care so I suppose she trusts him to make the right decisions.  
  
At least he's made a decision about the carpets. All carpets ship-wide are in the process of being cleaned. The cleaning solution smells almost as bad as leola root and so many emerge from the newly treated areas looking rather green in the face.  
  
"I have no opinion," I say neutrally and this is true. I only want one thing and that's B'Elanna. How we get her back is of no consequence to me. Whatever the means, as long as they justify the ends, it does not matter to me. Heartless, but true.  
  
"Come on, Tom, you've got to have an opinion," Harry leans forward, pushes his plate aside. "It has been thirty-seven days. You've got to come up with something."  
  
"You mean a better plan than Chakotay's? I actually liked the Captain's plan. That was a good one but doesn't look like it's working, does it?" I ask.   
  
Harry is silent for a moment and then his brown eyes meet mine.  
  
"I would really like to see the Alpha Quadrant again," he says.  
  
"I know the feeling," I answer. And there is only one way that I'm going home again.  
  
With B'Elanna. There is no other option.  
  
****  
  
Day forty-three. Harry is depressed. I tell him to join the club; he isn't amused. Our holodeck time has gone woefully unused. Instead, we sit against the yellow-grided walls, our legs spread out in front of us.   
  
"Remember when we went through that dead space?" I say. "At least this time, we get to see other planets, even talk to other species."  
  
"Yeah, I guess."  
  
Silence. Moment after moment. We're getting good at these pregnant pauses. I speak and then ten minutes later he responds. It's great, superficial type of stuff. We're too scared to talk about what we're feeling. Don't ask if you don't want to know and to be honest, who really cares? Just answer you're fine and move on. No one wants a song-and-dance about how you really feel. As Seven would say, feelings and emotions are rapidly becoming irrelevant.  
  
Ennui, in its best form, is still debilitating.  
  
"I have this great idea for another Captain Proton adventure," Harry says.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," he doesn't extrapolate and I don't ask for clarification. I figure if he is enthused about the story, he will go ahead and program it. Do now if you are going to do it all and then tell someone about it later. That's Voyager's latest motto. Do what you like because no one really cares. You can ask all you want, explain until your throat is hoarse, but then you discover that no one is really listening.  
  
"Sensors picked up a planet with dilithium reserves," I say. "Close to the surface too, minimal work required to extract it. I volunteered to be part of the away mission."  
  
"Terrific," Harry says. "Extra dilithium, always good."  
  
"Yeah," I say.   
  
"I really enjoyed our last stop at Caligula," Harry says. "Picked up some things to take back to the Alpha Quadrant. Souvenirs."  
  
"Don't you have enough of those already?"  
  
"Just something to remember this place."  
  
"Believe me," I say. "I'm never going to forget the Delta Quadrant."  
  
I close my eyes and tip my head back.  
  
Lately, I've been designing that house in San Francisco in my head. I have placed all the rooms and then started furnishing it. I even have plans for terraforming the land to my exact specifications. The only thing missing is B'Elanna and these days, I'm having a hard time of visualizing her anywhere.  
  
Two months ago, a future without B'Elanna was unthinkable, but now it is turning into a grim reality.   
  
"Tom?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," I say. "Fine."  
  
"Okay, just checking."  
  
I hear Harry getting to his feet and I open my eyes.  
  
"Where are you going?" I ask.  
  
"I have a lunch date with Megan," he says. "She chewed me out royally the last time I was late."  
  
"Don't be late then," I say callously.  
  
"Hey," Harry holds up his hands. "You asked me to meet you here and what do we do? We just sit here. Tom, you've got to snap out of it. We're all under pressure here but you can't just let yourself go like this."  
  
"That sounds like a challenge," I say, standing up.  
  
"Well, maybe it is. Don't you think about anyone other than yourself? You've got to stop feeling sorry for yourself."  
  
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I snap.  
  
"Yes, you are, and it's not fair to the others. It's especially not fair to the Commander."  
  
"Don't bring Chakotay into this," I say. "If you have a problem with me, deal with me."  
  
"We all have a problem with you, Tom, and the problem is that you are vanishing on us. You are somewhere the rest of us can't follow. We understand why, but you're not letting us help."  
  
"I don't need help. I just need..." I cannot finish the sentence.  
  
"It's all right, Tom," Harry lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It will be all right. Don't worry."  
  
Easier said than done and probably not too much of a stretch for Harry, perpetually optimistic guy that he is.   
  
"Enjoy your lunch with Megan," I say. "I'm going to sit here for a while."  
  
"All right," Harry says. The doors swoosh closed behind him, leaving me alone in my black-and-yellow box of misery.  
  
What I don't understand about my relationship with B'Elanna, now that I have the time to mull things over, is the reset button. Sometimes, I think that we have settled too much, that some days are tumultuous and passionate and then nothing.   
  
Extreme nothing, and we pass as mere acquaintances rather than as lovers. And then something happens, something life-threatening, and we snap back together until the next lull. It's almost as if we drift apart, courtesy of this button that one of us is constantly pressing.  
  
If I could, I would reset us back to that moment before B'Elanna left. I would have pleaded more, would have told her I loved her, would have done a million things differently. And this time if I could reset it all, I would not have let her go.  
  
Sure, she would have hated me, despised me, but she would be here and safe. I could take a cold shoulder for a week or two. It would be better than this waiting game.  
  
I think about Seven's constant refrain. The Doctor, the Doctor, the Doctor... it's been weeks since I last was in sickbay. Occasionally, the Doctor pops up in a variety of places on Voyager, usually in search of the never-sleeping Chakotay, but in general, the Doctor confines himself to sickbay.  
  
I exit the holodeck and within minutes, I'm in the presence of the Doctor   
himself. He is tinkering, which is not unusual, since the sickbay is empty.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says gleefully.   
  
"What are you doing?" I ask.  
  
"Enhancing my drawing subroutine. I am attempting to refine it in order to capture exactly the visual acuity and detail of some of the great masters. For example, T'Lok of Vulcan could draw the veins of a flower petal in such detail, it looked like a holoimage."  
  
"I have seen some of T'Lok's work."  
  
"I did not know you were a fan of art, Mr. Paris."  
  
"It was a required course at the Academy," I say. "`Alien Species History   
through Art' or something to that extent."  
  
"Sounds fascinating. I will have to see if it's offered once we return to the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
"I'm sure you will enjoy it."  
  
The Doctor leans back in his chair, props his feet up on the desk, and eyes me keenly.  
  
"Do you need something, Mr. Paris?"  
  
"Actually, I wanted to see if you needed some help. I'm off duty, so I thought I'd lend you some of my skills," I smile.  
  
"It has been slow," he admits. "But I could use your help in replicating some medicines."  
  
"Sure," I say. "Anything in particular?"  
  
"Camezin, Alathrop, Mernazin, Capioze," the Doctor recites. Tension tightens my shoulder muscles, extends through my neck, and finally culminates in a pounding headache. Amazing what a simple string of obscure medical drugs can do to an individual.  
  
"Anti-assimilation drugs," I state flatly.  
  
"Very good, Mr. Paris," the Doctor beams. "I want a full supply on hand for when the Captain, Tuvok and Torres return."  
  
"I'll get right on it," I promise. "Are the formulas available in the database?"  
"Of course. And you'll find that I created the formula for Capioze myself," he grins from ear to ear. "With help from Seven, of course."  
  
"Of course," I say.   
  
I head towards the computer and call up the formulas for the drugs mentioned. I do not know them well, except for the purpose they serve. The words "documented side-effects" catch my eyes. I frown; I do not recall Seven suffering from any complications due to these drugs, but then again, she has mastered the art of hiding anything and everything from us. In that sense, she and B'Elanna are so similar.  
  
I read through the fields as fast as I can. Side effects could possibly include headaches, nausea, dizziness, fainting, elevated white blood cell count, liver failure, sensitivity to light, irregular heartbeat, vertigo, mental lapses or death.  
  
I begin to replicate the drugs.  
  
****  
  
Chakotay stares around the table. His eye is twitching; I wonder if he knows. Up down up down up down...  
  
Harry is to his right, Neelix to the left. The Doctor sits opposite me, ecstatic at being called to this meeting. Then Seven and finally me.   
  
We have nothing to say except for those items related to business. Back when Janeway was here commanding, these meetings would start with snide comments, discussion of off-duty plans, follow-ups on other things. Now we sit here in silence, watching Chakotay search for words in his head - words that ultimately mean nothing to any of us.   
  
"When should we give up?" Chakotay finally asks. "It has been sixty-two days now."  
  
He doesn't need to tell us how long it has been; we all know to the minute how long it has been. Seven shifts in her chair looking distinctly uncomfortable.   
She had said, not too long ago, that she wished it had been her who had gone aboard the Borg cube; at least she knew what to expect and she did not fear renewing her ties to the Collective as the rest of us would.   
  
"Give up?" disbelief is evident in Harry's voice. "You're not serious."  
  
"I did not mean to imply that we would leave them with the Borg," Chakotay's voice is sharp. "I simply asked how long should we wait before we prepare a full frontal assault?"  
  
"We do not have the weapons necessary to defeat the Borg," Seven says icily.  
  
"If we start planning now, we could," Chakotay says reasonably.   
  
Yes, of course. We could plan from now until the year 7250 and we still would not prepared to meet the Borg head on. Unlike the Borg, we have no friends we could invite to this particular party. We haven't exactly parted on good terms with about ninety percent of the alien species we have come across here in the Delta Quadrant.  
  
"It would be suicide mission," the Doctor, the one of us who cannot truly die, points out. We all turn to look at him.   
  
"We know that," Harry says snidely. "Any encounter with any species in the Delta Quadrant is never pleasant."  
  
"Please," Chakotay says. He turns to face Seven. "How are repairs progressing?"  
  
"Repairs to Voyager are complete," Seven says.  
  
"Efficient," the Doctor says. Evidently even the Doctor is not immune from this contagion of sarcasm. Seven nods at him, one eyebrow nearly reaching to her hairline.  
  
"Tom? Do you have anything?" Chakotay asks.  
  
"No," I say. "Just tell me where you want Voyager to go and I'll get you there."  
  
Neelix takes this moment to bring up his weekly concern about morale.  
  
"The crew is terribly depressed, Commander," he tells Chakotay. "You need to tell everyone what is going on. Either the Captain is coming back or she's not."  
  
I want to tell Neelix that morale will improve if only he would stop serving leola root but one look at Chakotay keeps my mouth shut.  
  
Chakotay sets his jaw, looking as defiant as I've ever seen him. At this moment, if Chakotay were facing twenty Cardassians, armed only with a dagger, I would put the odds on Chakotay. He wears his determination well; whether he can follow through is another story entirely.  
  
"She's coming back," he says. "Seven, Harry, get this ship ready. We're going after the Borg."  
  
// "Do you ever think about the Alpha Quadrant?" B'Elanna asks. We are lying in bed, both of us flat on our backs, staring up at the ceiling. "Or is that a stupid question?"  
  
"It's a stupid question," I say. "I think about it daily."  
  
"What do you think about? Other than a shower?"  
  
"My family."  
  
"Your father?"  
  
"Definitely my father."  
  
She sighs a little sigh.   
  
"I don't think about it much," she admits. "I don't have anything to go back to.   
Isn't that sad?"  
  
"You have me," I say in a teasing voice.  
  
"Is it enough?" she asks sadly.  
  
"I'd like to think it's enough," I tell her. I prop myself up on my elbow to look down at her. She turns her head slightly towards me. "I know what you mean though."  
  
"I'm glad. I don't want you to be angry with me for anything."  
  
"That's hard, B'Elanna. You know that."  
  
I'm joking and she knows it, but her expression remains serious.   
  
"What if we don't make it?" she whispers.  
  
"I don't like to think like that."  
  
"I mean, honestly. We might not make it. We could die out here, Tom," her voice grows high-pitched and her fingers clutch at my shirt. "So many times we've come close and what if our luck runs out?"  
  
I smooth her hair away from her face. This is the B'Elanna who gets me every time - the one who is afraid and vulnerable. In times like this, I want to fold her into my arms and assure her that nothing - nobody - will ever hurt her. Promises like those are hard to keep so I don't make them. The last thing I want is to join the elite club of people who have let B'Elanna Torres down.  
  
"I intend to see my family again," I tell her. "I have to believe it's going to happen."  
  
"I don't know if I'm that strong."  
  
"You are."  
  
She is silent, her skin cold and clammy beneath my palm.   
  
"B'Elanna? It's all right," I say. "I can believe for both of us. \\  
  
  
Chakotay believes enough for all of us; it's not his fault that morale is deteriorating and it's not his fault that the rest of us cannot summon up enough courage to face the Borg yet again. The Kazon maybe, Hirogen we can handle, but the Borg? No. None of us want to go there again. We know we have to, but we don't have to like it.  
  
I can feel Chakotay's gaze on me.  
  
"Tom," he says. "I will want you at helm."  
  
"Of course," I answer.   
  
By now, Chakotay is standing, hands akimbo to hips. He regards us dispassionately, probably wondering if he should ask the Doctor to give us some kind of stimulant.   
  
We can't help it. We all possess a healthy sense of self-preservation. It is only, um, human, I suppose to feel this type of trepidation.   
  
"We'll do it," Harry drags himself to his feet. Good old Harry. Maybe he will earn that combat promotion yet. God knows he deserves it after all this time. If taking out a Borg cube doesn't do it, then I don't know what will.  
  
"I will run scans from Astrometrics to locate the cube," Seven offers. Downright generous of her, I suppose.  
  
"This will work," Chakotay says. He sounds like he's trying to convince himself, that he's not betting the house against something that is a sure loser.   
  
"Or we'll die trying," I crack but no one laughs. Harry is looking at his hands, examining his nails in minutia. Seven skewers me with her eyes. Really need to work on that sense of humor, Seven.   
  
"Enough, Tom," Chakotay says. "Dismissed."  
  
We're halfway out of the room when Chakotay calls my name again. I turn. Chakotay is standing with his back to me, staring out into space.  
  
"Tom, I understand what you're trying to do," he says. "I'm afraid all of our nerves are fried right now. The tension is getting to us."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"There is a time for everything-"  
  
I hold up my hand though Chakotay can't see me.  
  
"I got it," I said. "I'm sorry. I can't help myself."  
  
"See that you do," Chakotay says sharply. He turns around. "I'm not any more enthusiastic about going after the Borg than you are but I'm not willing to wait anymore. The longer we delay the inevitable, the harder it will be to get the Captain, Tuvok and B'Elanna back."  
  
"I understand," I say.   
  
"Good. Dismissed."  
  
Out in the corridor, Harry is waiting for me, wearing his typical eager beaver expression.  
  
"What did he want?" Harry practically pants in my face.  
  
"Levity is not allowed. All jokes are banned."  
  
"Are you serious?"  
  
"Deadly."  
  
Harry's face breaks into a broad grin - the first genuine smile I've seen from him in weeks.  
  
"I've got to get to Engineering," he says. "Seven told me not to keep her waiting. It would decrease... efficiency."  
  
I nod, "See you later then. I'm going to take a look at the helm, see if there are any modifications or realignments that need to be taken care of."  
  
We part ways and I head back to the Bridge.  
  
// "Have you always wanted to fly?" she asks. She looks cute like this, her curly hair streaming down past her cheek, as she lays half across my chest, her chin propped on her hands.  
  
"Always," I say sleepily.   
  
The sun is warm, caressing. Yes, B'Elanna did this one well. She won't accept the praise for recreating the Virgin Islands, but I intend to thank her best as I can. This beach program is rapidly becoming my favorite, far surpassing Fair Haven and Captain Proton; this is a program for just B'Elanna and me.  
  
"I always wanted to be an engineer," she mumbles. "I used to take things apart because I was so mad. Especially when they didn't work and then my mother would be angry. I would be so afraid of her anger, I would try to put them back together before she found out. I reassembled my first replicator when I was ten."  
  
"A child prodigy."  
  
She laughs, a gentle laugh, sweet and loving.   
  
"You could say that," B'Elanna says. "But I think my mother would have preferred that I learned how to hunt targ or make a blood pie or even engage in ritual bat'leth competitions."  
  
"Sounds rather... bloody."  
  
"It is," B'Elanna rests her head on my chest, turning so her eyes are focused on the water. "Would your father have wanted something else?"  
  
"You know what my father wanted. A diehard Starfleet officer who could carry on the legacy with honor and glory."  
  
"Sounds like he's Klingon."  
  
"Some ways, yes. Very attached to duty and honor and responsibility. No sense of humor. None at all."  
  
B'Elanna sighs and wraps her arms around my chest.  
  
"I could stay like this forever," she whispers. "Right here, it feels just perfect."  
  
"Hmmm.."  
  
"Are you ever afraid it will change?"  
  
"No," I laugh and then try to sit up, no mean task when you have a half-Klingon draped across you. B'Elanna nicely shifts position and I settle back into a reclining position and she leans against me.  
  
"Sometimes I'm very afraid," she admits.  
  
"I know that."  
  
"Do you think anyone else knows?"  
  
"Nah, just you and me."  
  
"That's good," her fingers find her way to mine. Intertwine and squeeze. Then she tips her head back against my shoulder and I tilt mine towards her.  
  
"Looks like neither of our parents got what they wanted, did they?" she whispers.  
  
"No," I say in the second before my lips meet hers. \\  
  
****  
  
  
"Damn!"   
  
Nothing can go right on this ship. Day seventy-four and we're here, hanging out in space, almost dead, but not quite.  
  
We haven't even seen the Borg yet. No, we met the enemy, a nebula, and in the space of six minutes, we were conquered.  
  
Chakotay is furious. I think. I can never tell any more with him. I sense a lot of frustration, anger, impatience, all of this jumbled up within him. It all manifests itself in periodic outbursts and Chakotay is subjecting the Bridge crew to a fine display now.  
  
Janeway would never throw a temper tantrum on her bridge. No, ma'am, she wouldn't ever think of losing her composure like this. But then this is Chakotay, usually calm and unruffled, and now completely unnerved. I wonder if there is something else going on with Chakotay, something else that we don't know about.  
  
//"What do you think of the Captain and Chakotay?" B'Elanna is whispering across the table, her hands flat in front of her, her chin nearly in her food.  
  
"What?" I ask.  
  
"The Captain and Chakotay," B'Elanna smiles. "You know..."  
  
I shrug, "Maybe. Maybe not."  
  
"You should listen to gossip a little more," B'Elanna says.  
  
"And you should listen a little less."  
  
"I still think there is something there."  
  
"You ought to think a little less too."  
  
"You're in dangerous territory, helmboy."  
  
"When am I not?" I ask.  
  
She grins then, full and wide, ear to ear.   
  
"Good comeback," she whispers back. "But I'm right. You wait and see." \\  
  
Janeway and Chakotay. Could they? I'm sure there about a thousand Starfleet regulations against a relationship between captain and first officer and Janeway is the last person to go against Starfleet. But then, this whole situation is not exactly normal and I bet we could throw the regulation book right out the airlock. No one except Tuvok would really care, I imagine.  
  
Janeway and Chakotay. Now that would explain everything.  
  
"Damn, damn, damn!" Chakotay exclaims again.  
  
It would be amusing if the situation wasn't so serious.   
  
"Harry, report!" Chakotay barks as I rapidly try to evaluate the damage done to the helm.  
  
"Looks like there is a power drain on deck fifteen," Harry says.  
  
"Get down there," Chakotay says. Harry looks less than enthused but disappears into the turbolift.  
  
Now Chakotay looks like a madman, pacing back and forth, wringing his hands like some spurned heroine in a bad romance novel. Dramatics become our first officer and fascinates me. Before today, I had seen more emotion from a rock than from Chakotay.   
  
"How is helm?" Chakotay is now breathing down my neck. I imagine that he can read minds and he must know that my thoughts, these days, are never good.   
  
"Looks good. No systems compromised that I can see," I report.  
  
"Good. Get down to Engineering and give Seven a hand."  
  
I swing around and head for the turbolift. Already the ship is shifting, lurching, giving way to a new realization: we have lost inertial dampers.  
  
I jog to Engineering, nearly running over Naomi Wildman, who is anxiously standing against the corridor as a console spits sparks above her head. I would   
  
move her but there is no time.  
  
It's either Naomi's hair or Voyager.  
  
I settle for a quick, "Naomi, move! Go back to your quarters!"  
  
Whether she obeys, I don't know; I'm already turning the corner.  
  
Seven is dictating orders efficiently; she is a master at multitasking. Thankfully, she is no longer running Engineering as her own little collective; she stays away from renaming personnel, finally understanding that designations are less efficient than calling someone by his or her given names.  
  
"Seven," I say.  
  
"Lieutenant Paris," she acknowledges me coldly. It amazes me how her hair is completely in place, not a bit of her ruffled in any way. Voyager could explode around her but Seven would manage to escape without a single spot on her clothing. "There is a problem with the plasma relay in conduit thirteen."  
  
Great. Harry gets to vacation down on deck fifteen and I get to cool my heels in conduit thirteen. But I offer Seven my cheekiest smile and take the data PADD from her.  
  
Toolkit in hand, I crawl through conduit thirteen. It's the narrowest of the Engineering conduits, stuffy and hot also. I strip my jacket at the entrance and crawl through, feeling the perspiration running down my back.  
  
The ship lurches again, not at all good for the stomach. I hope Seven gets right on those inertial dampers.  
  
I find the offending relay by its bluish-orange sparks. I roll onto my back and remove the metallic plating, already hot.   
  
"Ouch!" I drop the cover behind me and then reach for the toolkit. Immediately, I can see the problem. Two of the wires are burned, fused together. The short-circuit blew out at least six of the isolinear chips in the relay, causing the backup in plasma, which continues to eat through the rest of the wires in this section.  
  
I work as quickly as I can, muffling my groans as the heat burns at my fingers.   
  
// "I dream about this stuff," B'Elanna says. She is leaning against the console, relatively at ease despite us being on view for the entire Engineering department.   
  
"I thought you dreamed about me," I tease in a low voice, leaning forward for a kiss but she dodges me.  
  
"Tom," B'Elanna says in her best schoolteacher voice. "Behave."  
  
"Sorry. So what were you saying?"  
  
"This," she jabs a finger at a schematic. "You see how I did the wiring through   
here? It's all in parallel instead of serial."  
  
"I see that," I answer noting the white lines in the diagram.   
  
"That way when one goes out, they all don't go out," she looks enormously proud. "It's so simple but it took me forever to figure out. Last night, it just came to me, in a dream. I had to come right down and implement it."  
  
"So that's where you were."  
  
"Tom," again that reproachful tone.   
  
"It's great work, B'Elanna," I say sincerely. "Congratulations."  
  
She beams at me, "Really?"  
  
"Are you fishing for compliments? You know how good you are."  
  
"Do I?" she is deadly serious.  
  
"Hey," I say softly.   
  
"You're right," she smiles. "I am good." \\  
  
  
The wiring in this section is exactly how I remember it. Parallel wires running the full-length of the conduit. I clip the two that are burned and yank them out. The panel hisses at me and throws sparks. I wait a second before removing the damaged isolinear chips and then quickly replace them.   
  
The ship rocks again and I knock my head against the sidewall.  
  
"Great," I say, taking stock of my injuries. Six burned fingers, one concussion.   
None of this was in the job description when I signed up. Hell, the Delta Quadrant wasn't even in there.  
  
Or maybe it was in the section under "get out of jail free." Yeah, right next to the "all expenses paid" fine print.  
  
I'm going to have sit down with Janeway when she gets back, take another look at that job description.  
  
I put the panel back in; replacing the burned wires will have to be done at another time.  
  
I crawl back out the conduit and back into Engineering. By now, Harry has emerged from the bowels of Deck Fifteen, sooty, dusty and a bit rumpled, but triumphant all the same.  
  
"Inertial dampers are back on line," Seven says. Even in that monotone voice, her words are music to my ears.  
  
Around us, there are frantic shouts as sparks erupt around us. Panic mode is what we do best; we're so used to be in trouble that calm is what gets us every time.  
  
"I've got the plasma relays patched," I say. "They're good for now."  
  
"Power drain patched and rerouted," Harry says. "We should be good to go."  
  
Seven nods. I smile. God, we're good.  
  
The three of us troop back to the Bridge where an anxious Chakotay is waiting for us.  
  
"Report," he barks.  
  
"Primary repairs completed," Seven says. "There are still some areas needing attention but impulse power is now possible."  
  
"Good work," Chakotay nods towards the helm. "Tom, start scanning for the Borg. Seven, Harry, continue repairs as necessary."  
  
I tap my replacement on the shoulder and he slides out. I take a quick look at our bearing and tap in a new speed at impulse.   
  
I have been scanning for the Borg for twelve days now. Hide and seek in the Delta Quadrant and Voyager is it. I don't know where the Borg are; they are better at this game than we are.   
  
The Borg haven't even left behind their usual breadcrumb trail of destroyed and assimilated colonies. They have simply taken our people and vanished.  
  
Chakotay is now relatively calm and has settled into the Captain's chair. He sits rather uncomfortably, shifting from side to side. After seventy-four days,   
  
I would think he was used to sitting there.   
  
My guess is that Chakotay likes command if it's his ship to command, but this is Janeway's baby, Janeway's crew and he would like nothing better to turn us all back over to her. He is, in a word, a glorified babysitter, and we follow him numbly because we don't know what else to do.  
  
But to be fair to Chakotay, he does have a lot on his mind and it's evident in the new creases beneath his eyes and the perpetual downturned corners of his mouth.  
  
Seven says he still comes to the cargo bay to check if there has been any contact and it disturbs her to respond in the negative.  
  
"No sign of them, sir," I say turning around.  
  
"Keep trying..."  
  
"If I might," I face Chakotay. "Shouldn't we wait until the repairs are finished before searching out the Borg?"  
  
"Keep scanning, Lieutenant."  
  
I turn back to the console. My instincts are right; Chakotay can't wait to get rid of us.  
  
  
****  
  
I find Seven in the cargo bay examining a painting.  
  
"The Doctor did this," she says. "I find it quite a good use of color."  
  
I stare at it. Three squares, yellow, red and blue, against a white background. Geometric, angular, modern, precise, call it what you will, but beautiful it's not.   
  
"It is... interesting," I tell Seven.  
  
"That is all?" she looks disappointed.   
  
I sigh; I do not particularly want to get into a discussion about the merits of the Doctor's artwork right now. It is possible, after all, to hurt this particular hologram's feelings and I have a feeling we will need him well-disposed to all of us when it comes to getting our people de-assimilated.  
  
"The Doctor said you were at Unimatrix Zero last night," I say getting right to the point. Seven nods.  
  
"Yes," she says. "I see no sign that the virus has been spread. They do not remember being there once they leave. I continue to give them instructions to find the Captain and the others, but it is useless and not an efficient method of retrieving them."  
  
"What do you suggest?" I ask, as if we have the power to make these command decisions.  
  
Seven contemplates my question as she places the painting aside.   
  
"Commander Chakotay is correct. We must face the Borg. Now that our ship repairs are completed, we must devote all of our resources to that task."  
She says it so dispassionately and it surprises me. Extermination of the Borg is not in Seven's make-up and it's certainly not what we're after, but for once, she is completely in agreement with all of us: we must attack and we must do it soon.  
  
It is, as the ancient saying goes, a true Kodak moment.  
  
Our renewed sense of vigor has come in the aftermath of the repairs. After all, if we can survive an ionic storm in the midst of a nebula and emerge fairly unscathed, why not play those odds against the Borg Queen and her minions?  
  
"We are on day eighty-three," Seven says. An acute awareness of the obvious and of stating it, that is Seven's special talent; one of her more endearing traits, actually. "Time is running out."  
  
She's right. I figure by now B'Elanna is completely assimilated, her temper now positively glacial and her movements jerky instead of fluid.   
  
// "I'm cold," she whispers. I rub her hands together, clasping them between mine.  
  
"It won't be long," I say.   
  
She glances down the vast expanse of mountain.  
  
"This isn't like skiing in the holodeck," she says shivering. "It's colder."  
  
I pull her towards me and wrap her in my arms.  
  
"It was a bad idea," I whisper into her ear. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I just want to get ... warm," her eyes are closing.  
  
"B'Elanna, wake up! Stay with me, B'Elanna. Voyager will be here soon... B'Elanna..." \\  
  
"Lieutenant," Seven is looking at me oddly. I shake my head, rubbing my hand against my eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry, just tired," I smile. "Double shifts, you know."  
  
"I see," she says in that tone of voice that clearly means that she does not. I sigh. I think about telling her about some of my thoughts, about how memories of B'Elanna now have that quality of a fond reminiscence. I don't claim not to bleed over the loss of B'Elanna Torres; I doubt I will ever get over losing her. But now, I've gotten used to her being gone, used to waking up in the middle of the night alone.  
  
It's amazing how much time has passed since I last saw B'Elanna and I can't say it hurts any less; time, however, has taught me to deal with her absence.   
  
//"Tom, I don't know how much I can hold on..."  
  
"You can. I'm sorry. I promise to make it up to you."  
  
"No, I'm sorry," her eyes flutter open. "I know how much this trip meant to you..."  
  
Her eyes close and she is deadweight in my arms. I rub her arms, her hands, her cheeks, and even pinch the side of her neck. She is cold, through and through.  
  
In that moment, I think I have killed her. Because I wanted to go skiing on a real mountain instead of in the holodeck, I killed her.   
  
"B'Elanna..." \\  
  
Seven and I, shoulder to shoulder, head to the turbolift. She is going to Astrometrics to run yet another long-range scan to locate the Borg. I am going to the Bridge to take my place at the helm, to point Voyager somewhere in the vicinity of the Borg.  
  
The atmosphere on the Bridge is calm, almost light-hearted. Even Chakotay looks fairly relaxed.  
  
"Good morning, Tom," he says in a cheerful tone.   
  
I nod my greeting and then cast a look back at Harry. What's up? Harry shrugs.   
I slide into my seat, check on our heading. Chakotay doesn't seem to be inclined to change. Why bother? One direction is as good as any other.  
  
"I have a good feeling about this," Chakotay says to no one in particular.  
  
"Gut feeling?" I ask.  
  
"Something like that," I can hear the grin in Chakotay's voice. "We're getting closer."  
  
I shiver. In my mind, I can see armies of drones, stiff-legged and unsmiling, streaming out of their alcoves and into the eerie glow that permeates Borg cubes. I see them with their weapons, all of them aimed directly at Voyager.  
  
I hope Chakotay has a plan; I hope it's a good one.  
  
// "Are you mad at me?"  
  
"No," she says in mid-shiver as we sit in the sickbay, getting thoroughly fussed over by the Doctor. He won't admit it, but B'Elanna is his favorite. He tolerates me, but loves B'Elanna. No doubt I will hear about this outing for the rest of my sickbay career. Another incentive to get home quickly.   
  
"At the very least, I owe you a trip to Fair Haven," I smile.  
  
"Anything but that," she says. "I'd like to see your Captain Proton program."  
  
"Superheroes!" the Doctor scoffs as he waves a tricorder over B'Elanna. "If you ask me, I don't understand your fascination with such... juvenilia."  
  
I raise an eyebrow and B'Elanna smiles in spite of her raging fever and chills.  
  
"If you have to ask," I say in what I hope is a dignified voice, "you will never understand."  
  
The Doctor gives B'Elanna this look as if to say, what are you doing with this guy?  
  
She shrugs and squeezes my hand tightly. I don't need much more reassurance than this. I nearly kill her on a mountaintop and yet she still loves me.   
  
She loves me. \\  
  
  
I turn to face Chakotay, banishing the millions of Delta Quadrant butterflies that have chosen this very moment to congregate in my stomach.  
  
She loves me. I've never been more sure of this fact as I am as this very moment.   
  
"I'm ready," I tell Chakotay, but I'm thinking of B'Elanna. Thinking of how I promised to wait for her and how she promised to come back. No matter what has happened between us, no matter will happen, she loves me and I am confident, beneath that Borg technology, she still loves me.  
  
And I would do anything for her. This I'm sure of. I once said I was confident of getting back to the Alpha Quadrant, that it was sure to happen, and nothing bad would happen to us on the way.  
  
I now know that I was wrong, so wrong, and that was what B'Elanna was trying to tell me all along.  
  
I will bring her home or die in the attempt.  
  
****  
  
Seven is optimistic at our daily staff meeting. She is downright giddy, I think, almost like a schoolgirl in love.  
  
"Yesterday," she says. "I was at Unimatrix Zero. There is good news."  
  
I look at her.  
  
"Yes?" I ask, holding my breath.  
  
"The virus has been spread through the Borg cube," Seven's lips turn up into a semblance of a smile.  
  
"They've succeeded," Harry says. "They did it."  
  
"The drones have agreed to incite a rebellion," Seven says. "They will lower shields at a precise time which will allow us to retrieve our people without further battle."  
  
"They remember, right?" Chakotay asks. "They remember once they leave Unimatrix Zero?"  
  
"Yes," Seven nods. "They remember everything I tell them. They remember who they once were."  
  
We all sit in stunned silence. After all this time - one hundred days - we have finally succeeded.  
  
"There are some who are asking for assistance from Voyager," Seven says.   
  
"What sort of assistance?" Harry asks.  
  
"They would like to be returned to their homeworlds," she says.  
  
"If possible, we will accommodate them or find some way for them to return home," Chakotay promises. "Is Janeway...?"  
  
"Yes," Seven says. "She was not present but the others remember her. They say they will ask her to come to Unimatrix Zero next time."  
  
I want to ask about B'Elanna but I don't. Seven senses my tension because she turns to me.  
  
"Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres are alive," she says. "And are functioning as part of the Collective."  
  
"Where is the cube now?" Chakotay asks.  
  
"I have the coordinates downloaded," she passes a PADD to me. "We will rendezvous with the cube at the precise time on the PADD. At that time, the Queen will be incapacitated and the shields will be dropped. We can then beam out the Captain, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres. I have asked that the drones that wish to come to Voyager meet in a specific location so we can transport them out. Questions?"  
  
She surveys the room, but we are all too stunned to respond. Finally, I clear my throat.  
  
"What are we waiting for?"  
  
Chakotay nods.  
  
"Dismissed. You have your orders."  
  
We file out. I do not know about the others, but my heart is in my throat, throbbing.   
  
What will we find when we actually get there? Nothing, I've discovered, in the Delta Quadrant is easy or straightforward. There is always a twist in the plot, always some new way to torture us.   
  
I slide into my chair at the helm, my fingers already flying over the console.  
  
"Sending the coordinates to you now," Chakotay says, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.   
  
"Got them," I say. "Course laid in. Warp six."  
  
"I'm still not detecting the Borg," Harry says in a worried tone. "Seven, are you sure they will be there?"  
  
I can almost see Seven's face given the icy precision of her voice. Eyebrows arched all the way to her hairline, her jaw tight, and her head tipped slightly to the side.  
  
"They will be there," she says. I imagine Harry shriveling up there on the spot in the face of Seven's anger. I doubt that he will ever question Seven again. In the world inhabited solely by Seven and the mini-collective made entirely up of minors, inaccuracy is highly inefficient. Damn if Harry didn't know that already.  
  
"Try the scanners in Astrometrics," Chakotay says helpfully.  
  
I can only imagine the look Seven is bestowing on our First Officer. Remembering my earlier reprimand from Chakotay, I keep my eyes squarely on the viewscreen that is nothing but blackness and blurred stars.  
  
// "How long have we been out here?" B'Elanna asks as she leans over the edge of the railing, staring down into the rushing water below.   
  
"A couple hours," I say, cupping her elbow in my hand.  
  
"No, I meant out here in the Delta Quadrant."  
  
"Eternity," I say.  
  
"No really, Tom," she says. "Do you ever think it might be better out here?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Just no?" she turns her head sideways to look at me. "You look at this gorgeous gorge and you say that it might not better out here?"  
  
"This is one planet out of millions, B'Elanna. There are gorges on Earth too."  
  
She sets her jaw firmly.  
  
"Are you saying you don't want to go back?" I ask. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"  
  
She leans forward so far that I grab her around the waist.  
  
"B'Elanna," I say. "This is crazy. You can't do things like this. It scares me when you're reckless."  
  
"I'm not reckless," she turns around and puts her hands on my shoulders. "You don't have to worry about that."  
  
"You just nearly threw yourself off of a cliff and you're asking me not to worry?" I nearly yelling.  
  
I hate this. We take a short vacation on one of the million planets that we are always passing by and inevitably, it deteriorates into something less than vacation-like. Sometimes when we go to places like this, we see other couples who are able to converse with each other civilly and actually don't mind spending time together.   
  
"I'm just saying that the Delta Quadrant is not such a bad place to be," B'Elanna offers me a smile. "I wouldn't mind it at all."  
  
She is wearing that brave look; the one that says she hurts in ways I can't imagine but somehow, she will make it through. Damn if it doesn't get me every time.  
  
"I suppose it wouldn't be so bad," I concede reluctantly and am rewarded with a grin and a kiss. We stand there for a few more minutes, listening to the water rushing below us. The bridge sways gently as people pass us by. I let B'Elanna go and she takes my hand as we make our way back to the transport site where the others are waiting to return to Voyager.  
  
"You know," B'Elanna says as she looks up at the sky. "Starships are overrated as is exploring."  
  
"How do you figure?"  
  
"Don't you just want to stay in one place?" she asks. "Instead of watching the stars go by, don't you want to watch them come out and then fade away again in the morning?"  
  
There, she does it again. My unsentimental darling getting downright teary-eyed on me. And when she puts it like that, watching the same skyscape every night, I know she is right and I can't help but feel that same urge for constancy myself.  
Damned if she hasn't crawled into my skin and knows me, my desires, even better than I do. \\  
  
  
Hours pass slowly when you are hunting Borg. In the background, the familiar argument goes on. Harry insists that nothing is coming up on long-range scanners and Seven argues the opposite. I finally twist around to join in.  
  
"Either they stood us up or not," I say. "We won't be in a worse position than we were two hours ago."  
  
Chakotay says warningly, "Tom."  
  
"It's true," I say. "Either we find them or we don't."  
  
"We will find them," Seven says stiffly. She looks at Chakotay and asks to be dismissed. He gladly lets her go.   
  
"Harry," I say. "Don't go head to head with a Borg. It's not worth it."  
  
Silence falls over the Bridge and I realize the significance of what I just said. Having done enough damage for the day, I turn back to my console.  
Score one for Harry and Seven, zero for Tom Paris.  
  
****  
  
Neelix is all-aflutter. I have twenty minutes before I go back to the Bridge and while I'm quickly swallow down leola root left-overs.  
  
"Is it true that the Borg have been located?" Neelix asks anxiously, his eyes darting back and forth.  
  
"It is true," I say between bites.  
  
"So we're going after them?" Neelix says.  
  
"Yup."  
  
"And we're getting the Captain, Tuvok and B'Elanna back?"  
  
I meet Neelix's eyes for the first time since he sat down at the table with me.  
  
"Yes, definitely," I say.  
  
Neelix lowers his voice, "Will they be like... Seven?"  
  
I push back in my chair. This is the question I've been contemplating from the moment B'Elanna volunteered to go on this insane mission. Admittedly, her moods drive me absolutely crazy. I can't keep up with that mercurial temper, and I certainly can never tell what she wants from me at any given second. But despite all of that, I would not change her for anything. It is who B'Elanna is and if she was anything less, I do not know if I could love her the same.  
  
"Your guess is as good as mine," I say. "It's only been one hundred days. For Seven, it was considerably longer. We'll just have to wait and see."  
  
"I wonder what Mr. Vulcan will be like," Neelix says in that strangely childlike manner of his. He tips his head back and forth in the same way Tuvok does when he is thinking.  
  
I did not know that Neelix was so fond of Tuvok.  
  
I doubt Tuvok would find much honor in the adoration of one culinary-challenged Talaxian, but then what do I know?  
  
Either Tuvok will come back from the Borg party ship with a sense of humor and a real smile or he will come back completely unaffected by his ordeal.  
Extremes, yes, but that's Tuvok. He either feels nothing or feels it completely.  
But I'd rather not get Neelix's hopes up; the chances that the dessert-baking Tuvok will return are very slim.  
  
"He probably won't be as much fun," I say as I clean up the gravy on my plate with a slice of bread.  
  
"True, true," Neelix says excitedly. "But it will be nice to have them back,   
won't it, Mr. Paris?"  
  
"I'm looking forward to it."  
  
"The ship feels empty without them, doesn't it?"  
  
I sigh. I like Neelix, really I do, but sometimes his insistent questioning gets on my nerves, especially when I want peace and quiet.   
  
But then Neelix surprises me.  
  
"Are you nervous?" Neelix asks. His voice is very calm and gentle; for the first time since B'Elanna left, someone is asking the question I dread answering. And because it's Neelix, always so open and straightforward, I know I have to be honest.  
  
But in my true fashion, I have to sidestep the question. Why give out more than I have to?  
  
"About?"  
  
"B'Elanna."  
  
So simple a thought and one that I keep pushing away, but Neelix is right. I have to hand it to him; he managed to zero in on the one emotion that I have keep at arm's length, much as I keep B'Elanna.   
  
"Let me in, let me in," her voice whispers in my head, but I don't know if I can. If - when she comes back, whom will I be letting in?  
  
"Yes," I confess. "Very nervous."  
  
****  
  
Nine hours, thirteen minutes, twelve seconds. That's how long we have been waiting and still no sign of the Borg. Seven has retreated to her alcove to regenerate and somehow, both Chakotay and I have made our way there too. We sit on crates opposite Seven's alcove. Chakotay is leaning forward, both elbows on his thighs, his chin cradled in his hands. I lean back against the packing boxes directly behind me.  
  
"How do they do that?" Chakotay says finally.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Sleep standing up," he says. "I wonder about that."  
  
I regard Seven's slender silhouette spotlighted by green light. Her eyes are closed but I imagine that they are rippling the surface of her eyelids as she moves deeper into REM sleep or whatever the Borg equivalent is.   
  
"I don't know," I say. "Cows sleep stand up, don't they?"  
  
"You're must be thinking about horses," Chakotay answers. "Anyway, it's not quite the same thing."  
  
Horses, cows, Borg... oh my. Sometimes I can't help myself. Ever since B'Elanna downloaded that old movie, The Wizard of Oz, I have been fascinated with this concept of a yellow brick road that ultimately leads you to your inner most desire or the theory goes. I still haven't got the concept of the man behind the curtain yet, but B'Elanna does. She always smiles at me when that part comes as if to say, "Do you understand?" and I never do.   
  
And it's odd that I don't get it and mostly because it's a fantasy; a great, big, giant fantasy about the things you already posses - you just don't know it yet. I sometimes think B'Elanna is like that; doubting herself and never quite sure of where she is going at any moment in her life.  
  
I suppose that's why she's always running to the next best thing.  
  
Or the next Borg cube, that is.  
  
It defies explanation and I probably should not even try to understand B'Elanna or the little man behind the curtain. Some things are best left a mystery.  
  
My attention drifts back to Seven. She is absolutely stationary, erect and tense. I wonder if she wakes with muscle soreness in the morning; I don't see how she would avoid it. But then again, she has those magical nanoprobes that apparently can fix just about any problem.  
  
I suppose if B'Elanna now has her own supply of such things, we may cut our dermal regenerator use in half.  
  
"Why so quiet, Tom?" Chakotay ask.  
  
I shake my head, "Just thinking."  
  
"Anything in particular."  
  
"You think she's there? Unimatrix Zero?" I ask. I nod towards Seven as if there could be anyone else here on Voyager who could possibly take a jaunt over to the Borg's version of the land of Oz.  
  
"Who knows?" Chakotay shrugs his shoulders. He sounds exhausted.   
"I wonder what it's like," I muse. "I should ask Seven..."  
  
  
"Kathryn told me about it," Chakotay says. My ears perk up. Kathryn? Chakotay continues on and I can tell his eyes are glazing over as he stares at Seven.   
  
"She says that it's a wilderness of type. Lots of species congregating, interacting. They have relationships, friendships. It's very much like us except when they... wake up, they are drones again, unable to remember what they have experienced."  
  
"But what does it feel like?" I ask. "Is it like Malnia Gorge?"  
  
Chakotay shakes his head, "No, I don't think so. Not like that. It's not as peaceful, not as tranquil. She said she experienced a sense of urgency there, but that could have been because of the particular circumstances."  
  
"I suppose if the Borg Queen was hunting me down, I would be a little on edge too," I point out.  
  
Chakotay knits his fingers together. I realize that this is the longest amount of time the two of us have spent alone together. In the past, I've always avoided direct contact with Chakotay and I think he feels the same. There is too much unsaid between us to start communicating now.   
  
B'Elanna always wanted us - Chakotay and I, that is - to talk more, get to know each other, but I always put it off, always finding some other excuse. So she would spend time with Chakotay and I would spend time with B'Elanna. Ne'er the two worlds would meet.  
  
Irony now that B'Elanna, who wanted for Chakotay and I to trust each other, is not here to witness it.  
  
"Are you afraid?" Chakotay asks in a very low voice as if he is afraid of disturbing Seven and the children. "It's okay if you are. I am."  
  
Fear, unfortunately, is one of those overwhelming, all-encompassing human emotions. It grabs you and won't let go. Fear can either empower you or paralyze you where you stand.  
  
"Assimilation isn't so bad," I say.  
  
"That's what I hear," Chakotay cracks a smile, the first I've seen from him in days.   
  
"I imagine we would all be near each other. We could visit."  
  
"Compare nanoprobes," Chakotay says. "Who has more, who has the biggest, you know."  
  
"Sounds like fun," I agree. "We could hold assimilation contests. See who can assimilate the most people."  
  
"We probably would get to the Alpha Quadrant faster on a Borg cube," Chakotay says.  
  
"Good point," I nod. Our eyes meet and Chakotay is the first to break away.   
Already I feel better.   
  
"We should do this more often," I say.  
  
"Hang out in the cargo bay?"  
  
"Talk," I say.  
  
Chakotay glances at me, "Don't push your luck, Lieutenant."  
  
At some point during the night, Seven's eyes snap open; both Chakotay and I leap to our feet. It's rare that Borg awake during their regeneration cycles; they are not prone to the caprices of human nature which keep us tossing and turning throughout the night. I suppose sleeping standing up would have something to do with that.  
  
"Something is wrong," Seven says without preamble. "Axum has been deactivated."  
  
"Axum?" I ask.  
  
"Her friend," Chakotay lays extra stress on this last word.   
  
"He is the one who was leading the rebellion," Seven steps out of her alcove.   
  
She tosses a maternal look back at the Borg children and indicates the cargo bay doors. "The message was not communicated."  
  
We wait until the doors close behind us and then Chakotay faces Seven in his very best hands-on-hip pose. His face, earlier relaxed, has now turned grim as he digests the meaning of Seven's words.  
  
"So it did not work," he says in a low hiss.   
  
"No," Seven says. "I did see Captain Janeway today."  
  
Chakotay straightens, "How is she?"  
  
"She is well. I have communicated to her."  
  
"What now?" Chakotay urges.  
  
"The plan proceeds," Seven says coolly. "Only it has been delayed by twelve hours. Janeway has promised to see it through."  
  
Of course. Kathryn Janeway would never make a promise she could not carry through. She would rather die first and I think that she might get her wish this time.   
  
Not for the first time, I wonder what the whole point of this exercise is. Why is it our duty to rescue the Borg from themselves? Do we really need to be the superheroes of the Delta Quadrant? If you ask Janeway, she would nod her head in the affirmative most emphatically; we are Starfleet, we have a mission to accomplish and our duty is to help those in need. Repeat ad nauseum.   
  
I think courage is admirable but recklessness isn't and sometimes, it's hard to differentiate the two. Janeway is sometimes so gung ho that she loses sight of what is really important. I suppose if she could, she would be dragging all of the poor orphans of the Delta Quadrant back with us.  
  
Of course, I would never say these things to Janeway or even to Chakotay. It would be career suicide to even voice some of the thoughts I've been having lately and I intend very much to keep the new pip.  
  
At least until B'Elanna comes back so she can see I didn't go ruin myself in her absence by watching nothing but "I Love Lucy" reruns and playing mindless comic book scenarios out in the holodeck.  
  
See? I can be good. I can follow directions. She says stay out of the holodeck and I obey.  
  
I am not entirely innocent in this respect though. The holodeck has lost its charm and even Fair Haven, my favorite program, lies unused; it is too painful to wander into Fair Haven and hear Michael Sullivan whimper after his Katie O'Clare. And I wonder, if somewhere in Unimatrix Zero, Janeway has found her own soul-mate drone to swap stories of the Delta Quadrant with.   
  
"So we just wait here?" Chakotay demands. Evidently our first officer is not concerned about what Janeway might be doing with her free time in Unimatrix Zero, only what she will do. But his tone is more petulant, more of a "what do we do now?" type of attitude. This surprises me about Chakotay but then again, I don't know why I bother to understand anything anymore.   
  
"Yes," Seven tilts her head towards me. "We wait."  
  
Chakotay looks at me, "Any ideas, Lieutenant?"  
  
I shrug. What does he want from me? What kind of question is that anyway? But then I should have known that the good times with Chakotay could last only so long. Now it's back to business, brusque and authoritative again. I like the other Chakotay much better.   
  
"Sounds good," I say. What else is there possibly to say? "Twelve hours. What's another twelve hours anyway?"  
  
We affirm this quietly and go our separate ways. On my way back to my quarters, I pass B'Elanna's and the scene of our last argument. I say the last argument because I do not count our conversation prior to her departure as an argument; that was more of a spirited discussion.  
  
// "I can't believe you would volunteer for this mission!" I yell. Thank goodness there is a table separating us or I would surely lunge across and grab her by the neck. My pretty little darling doesn't blink in the face of my anger;   
  
I imagine she has battled holographic Klingons more frightening than yours truly.   
  
But I want her to understand, want her to understand the consequences of what she is doing. And more than anything, I want her, for once, to look before leaping.  
  
"The Captain needs me," she says flatly. "If the mission is going to succeed..."  
  
"I heard all of that," I answer. "You can say it all you like but you have to understand that it still makes no sense for you to go on this mission."  
  
"I don't want to fight you, Tom. Not now, now about this."  
  
She puts her hands flat on the table.  
  
"Please support me in this decision, Tom. It's not easy."  
  
"I know," I say. "But only if you let me try to change your mind."  
  
"It won't work," she sets her jaw and I can see the one vein which runs down the side of her neck throbbing with fury. I pace because nervous energy has taken control of my body and I don't know what else to do. Back forth back forth back forth...  
  
"You're making me dizzy," B'Elanna says. "Stop that."  
  
"This is crazy," I jab a finger at her and head towards the door.  
  
"Don't you walk out on me!"  
  
She's a fine one to talk; how many times has she walked out on me? Mostly, she doesn't even justify her exit with anything but a toss of her head and a snort.   
  
She is the queen of exits, managing to storm out with more grace and elegance than any one person should possess.  
  
I should look that good.  
  
"Watch me!" I yell back.  
  
I narrowly escape getting beaned in the head with a heavy pottery vase, a souvenir of trip to Malnia Gorge.  
  
So much for staying in one place for any length of time. B'Elanna has mastered the art of running while I stay where I am.  
  
And as I storm away from her quarters, I wish I had that kind of courage, that kind of conviction. But as it is, I can only claim my own special brand of cowardice.   
  
At least I have charm, I think as I bestow a smile upon a female crewmember exiting the turbolift. That is something.  
  
But not enough. Never enough. \\  
  
****  
  
There's a misconception in the early days of Starfleet Academy that life on a starship - your walking and standing life, that is - is very smooth, almost like walking on level, firm ground. I beg to differ. Six years on Voyager has taught me that it's more like taking your chances on the San Andreas fault, which is rapidly inching towards the coast of North America or is it the other way around? I can never keep it straight in my head; only think of those puckered hills that hide the ever-shifting tectonic plates beneath the continent.  
  
You slip and slide your way through the ship and eventually, after a few years, you get your ship legs and then it's not so bad. But still, I want to set the record straight on that point: inertial dampers only do so much. The rest you just have to manage on your own.  
  
It would not be a stretch to think of life on Voyager as surviving an earthquake. One big rumble and everything comes crashing down and then we just sit back and ride aftershock and aftershock.  
  
It's always something and after all this time, monotony does not sound so terrible.   
  
In my mind, I add a deck to the San Francisco house, complete with lawn chairs, a glass-topped table and umbrella. Perfect for sipping lemonade on a hot summer day.  
  
And of course, like all other reveries on Voyager, I'm jerked back to reality by the abrupt lurching of the ship. It rolls slightly to the side and those of us in the corridor end up leaning against the wall, trying to get our balance back.  
  
The ship steadies and I continue on my way.   
  
Things are fairly calm right now; the inevitable confrontation with the Borg has been delayed and it's almost a momentous occasion. We will live yet another day, rah, rah.  
  
In the mess hall, volume levels are back. People actually feel like talking again as if the secret is out of the bag and we're all able to talk freely.  
  
The solitary figure by the window catches my eye.  
  
Seven of Nine.  
  
It strikes me as an odd place for Seven to be; she rarely seeks out the more crowded areas of the ship, preferring to be either in Astrometrics or Engineering when not in the cargo bay.  
  
I wave off Neelix who magically appears at my side.  
  
"In a moment," I tell him.  
  
I make my way to Seven and stand beside her, my hands clasped in back of me. She does not acknowledge my presence, but instead remains stone-faced as she looks out into the darkness of space.  
  
"A penny for your thoughts," I offer as a conversation breaker.  
  
"I do not understand," she answers. "What is a penny?"  
  
"It is, uh, a monetary unit," I reply. "One out of a hundred."  
  
"I do not understand why you offering me a penny for my thoughts," she says the word "penny" as if it is something obscene. "Or what relevance a monetary unit would have."  
  
I give up before I start. It is impossible to use idioms on Seven of Nine. Damn if she didn't question everything.  
  
"Let's try this again," I say. "I just wanted to know what you were thinking."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know. You were just standing here staring out into space. I'm curious as to what fascinates you so much."  
  
"I'm thinking about the Borg."  
  
"Always a pleasant subject."  
  
"We will make contact with only one cube," she says. "There are approximately one million, five hundred drones per cube."  
  
"Okay..."  
  
"Only one in a million has the mutation," she says. "That means there may be only two or three drones at most per cube who have the ability to visit Unimatrix Zero."  
  
I still don't see where she is going with this so I remain silent, waiting for her to continue.  
  
"In addition to the Captain, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres, we will only rescue two or three more drones," she says.  
  
I understand now.  
  
"And you want to save more?" I ask. Damn if this save the world attitude isn't contagious.  
  
"It would be a worthwhile endeavor," she says.  
  
"Seven," I say. "How many Borg cubes are there in the Delta Quadrant?"  
  
"When I was a drone, there were approximately two thousand three hundred and eighty-nine Borg cubes in the Delta Quadrant."  
  
I let out a low whistle.  
  
"That's quite a party you have there," I comment. I am rewarded with an arched eyebrow for a response.  
  
"Borg cubes are manufactured at the rate of one every Borg standard year," she continues.  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"Eight Standard Federation months."  
  
"So there could be-" I do some quick mental gymnastics; my Academy math professors would be proud. Hell, my father would be proud. "There could four or five new cubes in addition?"  
  
"That is correct. Of course, some cubes may have been destroyed in the last three years but that is rare. It is very difficult to destroy a cube."  
  
"That's an understatement," I say.   
  
"Do not underestimate the Borg, Lieutenant," Seven says firmly.  
  
And here is yet another example of Seven's acute awareness of the obvious. She knows the facts, yet is unable to draw the emotional connection between those facts.   
  
"I never have," I protest. "After Wolf 359, no one ever will again."  
  
"Good," Seven bites down on her lip. "I am concerned. If the Queen discovers what we have planned, she will certainly try to stop us."  
  
"I wouldn't expect anything less from her Majesty."  
  
Seven is slightly offended by this remark; I can tell by the subtle way her nose twitches.  
  
And then I ask the question I've been dying to ask all day.  
  
"You mentioned that Axum had been deactivated," I say. "Are you okay?"  
  
"I feel reasonable grief," she says. "He was a good friend."  
  
"That's all? A good friend?"  
  
Seven is quiet and then she nods.  
  
"He was more to Annika, I believe, but to me, he was a good friend. I will miss him."  
  
Damn if she isn't cold. How she does it, I cannot imagine. You could stick her on a demon class planet and she still wouldn't thaw. Rather, the rest of us would lie there suffocating from the pure weight of the atmospheric, boiling inside of our skins, and Seven would stand over all of us, stately and triumphant.  
  
"Do you have other questions?" she asks in a tone that clearly indicates our conversation is over.  
  
"No," I tap her on the shoulder lightly in a gesture of goodwill; she jerks away. Tactilely defensive, I see. Evidently hugging is not encouraged in the   
Collective. We'll have to work on that.   
  
I think I have just the man for the job.  
  
****  
  
Harry is calibrating something. I say "something" because it seems to me that all we do on this ship is calibrate. Calibrate this, calibrate that. Who said you never do the same thing twice on a starship? Obviously that person never served on a ship; he or she certainly never set foot on Voyager or they would not have said something so inane.  
  
"Hi," I come up behind Harry, my fingers brushing the back of his shoulders.  
  
"Hey," he responds.  
  
"What are you doing?" I lean over the console.   
  
"Just getting ready for the big fight," Harry offers up a grin.   
  
"Still bucking for that combat promotion?"  
  
"Well, now that you mention it..."  
  
Harry's fingers are rather short and stubby. I never noticed this before. It's amazing the things you notice about people after so much time. It's like you think you know everything there is to know about them and then they do something that totally surprises you.  
  
B'Elanna does that daily.   
  
Off kilter, that's how she likes me. I suppose it's not unlike walking on Voyager.  
  
//"I was worried about you," she says. "Don't do that again."  
  
"Don't worry," I laugh, drawing her close. I love moments like this: the two of us together, cuddling on the sofa. All of our traumas seems so far away, complications disappear and we simply exist here within the bubble that is Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres.  
  
"I can't believe you went on that mission," she goes on. "I was so worried about you. I even asked Chakotay if I could come look for you."  
  
"You did?" I look at her in amazement. "B'Elanna, it was a demon class   
planet..."  
  
"It doesn't matter," she says, that familiar fire lighting up her eyes. "I wanted to make sure you were safe and the best way I could do that was go after you myself."  
  
"Chakotay didn't let you," I guess.  
  
"No," she rests her head against my chest, her hand inching up to my shoulder.  
  
"I'm glad," I whisper as I cover her hand with mine. "But it's all right now. All's well that ends well."  
  
"Don't do it again, Paris," she says sleepily. "I don't think my hearts could take it."  
  
"Are you saying you love me?"  
  
"Don't push it."  
  
"Never," I kiss the top of her forehead. "And for your information, I didn't exactly volunteer to go."  
"No? It sounds like something you would jump to take on."  
  
"Harry volunteered me."  
  
"Oh Tom," she sighs. "I knew he was going to get back at you sometime."  
  
I find myself chuckling as I tighten my grip on her. She lifts her head, puckering her lips. I bend to meet her halfway. \\  
  
"For what it's worth, Harry, you're a good friend," I say. Harry's fingers stop abruptly.  
  
"What?" he sounds shell-shocked.  
  
"Yeah, you're a good friend," I repeat casually. I lean against the wall facing him. Harry has stopped all semblance of work.   
  
"Even if you did volunteer me for the demon planet," I wrinkle my nose. "Damn unpleasant mission."  
  
"If you hadn't made the crack about the bicycle..."  
  
"Don't go there, Harry," I warn. "Why relive past ignominies?"  
  
He shakes his head and then the grin disappears from his face.  
  
"Tom," he clears his throat. "Um, yeah. You've been a good friend too. Really good. My best friend."  
  
Oh boy, serious stuff. Serious, serious drippy, mushy stuff. The type that makes you squirm in your seat or that works best written out on a greeting card.  
  
But Harry's sentiment is nicely said and I understand why he's saying it: for the same reason that I finally need to tell him how much I value his friendship.  
  
Tomorrow we face the Borg. It might be one cube or it could be two thousand. It could be our greatest hour or it could be our last.  
  
I'd hate for Harry not to know.   
  
"Um, yeah," I say awkwardly. I shift from foot to foot. Tender moments with someone other than B'Elanna are not exactly my strong suite. They make me feel queasy inside mostly because I'm confessing how I feel. Not something I'm real comfortable with; I've yet to say those three all-important words to B'Elanna.  
  
"It's weird, isn't it?" Harry has settled into his contemplative mood. "We never usually think about things like this. Battle, I mean. It just happens. Boom! All of sudden, there are the Hirogen or maybe it's the Kazon or Species 8472... they just show up and we react with a photo torpedo or two. This is different. This is planned."  
  
"You mean we have time to think about what might happen?" I ask.  
  
"Yeah. We knew the risks when we signed on, but did you really think it would happen to you?"  
  
"Not a million years," I say. I think back to the red-gold terrain of the demon planet, its oppressive hot air, and then Harry and I, staggering, finally falling to our knees and then flat on our faces. There have been a million chances to die out here in the Delta Quadrant; God knows, Voyager has left a trail of bodies behind, their families blissfully unaware.  
  
I don't know if the dead keep Janeway awake at night, wondering how many of those deaths she could have prevented.  
  
And I wonder now if she thinks about us, nervous and fidgety on Voyager, trying to figure out a way to get her back. I wonder if she ever considered the costs and if she did, why did she go ahead?   
  
I suppose she is trying to forge a legacy. Something other than the captain who got herself lost in the Delta Quadrant. Granted she didn't misread the stellar cartography charts and our presence here was completely unpredictable, but I can bet that's what the wags back at Starfleet Headquarters are saying about Janeway. I can even hear the jokes.  
  
"Did you hear about the Captain who wandered around the Delta Quadrant for six years because she wouldn't ask for directions?"  
  
Ha ha.  
  
I won't defend my loyalty; if anyone questions it, they are wrong. Loyalty is one thing no one has ever been able to fault me for. I agreed to serve Janeway and I will unquestioningly until I'm no longer under her command.  
  
Doesn't mean I have to like her orders.  
  
There is a fine line there and I mean to walk it. It's not always easy - hell, that's what got me demoted to ensign in the first place, disobeying because I thought I knew better. And maybe I was right that one time and she was wrong, but the truth of the matter is, I'm sworn to obey and obey I must.  
  
Even if my captain is a Borg drone.  
  
"So how long?" Harry asks.  
  
"Last time I checked, eight hours."  
  
"I got to get going on this then," and those stubby fingers fly again. Harry is oblivious to my presence, but I don't mind. I watch him for another few moments and then I leave.  
  
There is work to be done.  
  
****  
  
Two hours left to rendezvous. A date with the Queen.   
  
Chakotay is back to his usual calm self, the quiet, authoritative presence reminiscent of his Maquis days. He is sitting where Janeway usually sits, slightly turned away from us, his fingers rapping gently on the table. The PADD, showing the Borg on the periphery of our long range sensors, is off to the side.   
  
We are all here. Neelix, Seven, Harry, the Doctor and of course, me.   
  
"We will remain in a state of red alert," Chakotay says. I don't know what it is about red alert that brings not only a sense of urgency but also forces you into feeling a supernatural type of courage. There are things I have done in red alert that I would never even think of attempting in any other situations.  
  
I do my best creative thinking under pressure. New maneuvers, new ways of stretching the limits of Voyager. There is nothing I can't make this ship do; we understand each other perfectly.  
  
"How is sickbay?" Chakotay says. "I anticipate many... casualties."  
  
All eyes turn to the Doctor. He, thankfully, has left his usual bravado back in sickbay. He is serious, to the point.  
  
"I have spent the last twelve hours replicating necessary medical supplies," he answers. His eyes graze over me. "I imagine Mr. Paris will not be available."  
  
"Find someone else," Chakotay orders. "Mr. Neelix, maybe, to help keep calm."  
  
Another moment of tense silence. Waiting hurts. I never thought about it before because I have never waited like this before.  
  
//"So two months, huh?" B'Elanna is curled up against me. I relish feeling her bare skin against mine, and I'm enthralled, hopelessly so, in the gentle stroking of her fingers.  
  
"A very long two months," I say. "Think about being stranded on a planet with Tuvok of all people."  
  
"Tuvok has his moments," B'Elanna props herself up on her elbow; the blanket slips away from her chest as she rolls on top of me. We are now nose to nose. I reach up and run my hand through her hair, and then pull her down for a kiss.  
  
"What about Noss?" B'Elanna pulls away to my distress.  
  
"She loves him and he... well, he is a Vulcan."  
  
"Doesn't mean he's incapable of love."  
  
"No, it doesn't, but it also means he won't surrender in the heat of the moment."  
  
"Unlike you?"  
  
"Definitely unlike me," I grin. "I can't believe you didn't miss me at all."  
  
"Tom, it was two days for me. That's it. I wanted the vacation."  
  
"I can't believe you'd say such a thing."  
  
Her lips brush mine and then down to neck, chest, lower, lower and I am lost. I can tell she is lying; my sweet darling is so good at half-truths. But I have found her out now as she inches back up my chest.   
  
"You did miss me," I accuse as I roll over, flipping her onto her back. I pin her arms above her head.   
  
"Maybe a little," she says.  
  
"Admit it."  
  
"Tom..."  
  
I put my finger against her lips and she bites it, growling.  
  
"One day," I tell her. "You'll admit. You'll admit that you actually need me."  
  
"You wish," she snarls. "Pig."  
  
I laugh. Her leg curls up and around my waist as I lower myself down to kiss the little hollow at her neck. Her hands reach around, gently caressing the back of my neck and then to the base of my skull and finally into my hair.  
  
God, I missed this. Missed her.  
  
Tuvok be damned; he doesn't know what he gave up.  
  
And damn me for needing B'Elanna, wanting her, so much. \\  
  
Chakotay is going through the checklist briskly; Seven is ought to be proud of his efficiency though she keeps her comments to an absolute nil. I wonder what is going on in that head of hers. Sometimes I think she's a Greek statue, a Venus de Milo, if you will. A Janeway original, absolutely stone-faced, and exquisitely carved.  
  
I can't help it. I'm a guy, I notice these things.   
  
"Shields?" Chakotay says.  
  
"Recalibrated," Harry answers, but before he can add more information, Seven opens her mouth, contributing for the first time since we all filed in here forty-five minutes.  
  
"Commander, I suggest we turn off all non-essential systems to direct maximum power to the shields," she says.   
  
"Agreed," Chakotay nods. "Evacuate and close off non-essential parts of ship also to conserve energy. Tom, how does helm and weapons look?"  
  
"We have two hundred photon torpedoes," I say. "Hopefully we will not need more."  
  
"Amen," Harry mutters under his breath. "Two hundred should be enough to light up the entire Delta Quadrant. They should be able to see this battle from the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
Seven gives him her "don't underestimate the Borg" look. Harry ignores her. Good for him; he is starting, finally, not to pay much attention to the former object of his affections.   
  
"Helm is operating at highest efficiency," I say. "Vorick was up all night working to fix some of the glitches in the system but everything now should be A-OK."  
  
Seven frowns at the colloquialism and for a moment, I have feeling she is going to question the phrase. I should tell the Doctor to include idioms in Seven's "learn to act like an individual" self-study course.  
  
Chakotay nods and moves on to Neelix who reports that while there was some earlier tension and fear among the crew, including a question from Naomi about whether assimilation hurts, morale is relatively good now.  
  
"I can only describe the feelings as `patriotic,'" Neelix says. "Everyone is eager to do a good job for the Captain."  
  
"That's all I can ask. Seven, report to Astrometrics and keep tab on the cube. Let us know if you pick up anything else on sensors. If we're going to go up against an armada, I want to know about it."  
  
I do not suppose this would be a good time to tell Chakotay exactly how many Borg cubes are out there in the Delta Quadrant.   
  
Seven tips her head in acknowledgement.  
  
"Everyone else, take your stations," Chakotay says. "We go to red alert immediately. Dismissed."  
  
// "B'Elanna, are you okay?"  
  
She sniffs, "Go away, Tom."  
  
"Look, I want to help."  
  
I feel ridiculous, standing outside of her bathroom door. It could be worse; she could have left me in the hall.  
  
"I'm sorry, really I am."  
  
"You don't understand," she is crying again. Another myth debunked; starship doors are not soundproof. Rather, they are thin but give the semblance of solidity.  
  
"B'Elanna, let me in," I say, meaning it in more than one way. Silence and I wonder if I should leave. She'll come around in a bit and find me and then we'll pick up exactly where we left off, as if this little incident never happened.  
Why is it that we allow scar tissue to accumulate around the edges of wounds?   
  
Every time I promise not to do this again, every time she promises not to, we go ahead and do it again. Hurting is what we do best; without pain, we are nothing, nobody. Letting someone in to share takes away what is wholly and entirely ours.  
  
God we're both stubborn that way.  
  
And sometimes I wonder why I bother. Why do I even try to reach her when she is so closed off when I want her most? There's more to a relationship than just physical contact and I want to move to a point where we can settle into the type of relationship where we truly trust each other.  
  
"B'E'lanna," I try one more time. "Look, it's bad, I know. Just let me in, okay? You can talk to me or you can cry, but just let me be there."  
  
More silence but I can hear her crying, muffled as if she is sobbing into a towel. I pound the door in frustration and then she startles me by opening the door. Her eyes are rimmed with red, the tracks of her tears evident on her cheeks.  
  
I take her in my arms immediately, and she rests her head on my shoulder. I run my hand up and down her back as her body trembles. My shoulder grows damp.  
  
"I should have come sooner," I tell her. "I'm sorry."  
  
She sputters as the intensity of her sobs grow.   
  
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," I continue.   
  
"What... am... I ..." she does not complete her sentence.  
  
"Hey," I say softly. "It's all right."  
  
"The Maquis," and she dissolves once again. I feel her going limp so I half-carry half-drag her over to the sofa.  
  
"Are gone," I say it firmly as I cradle her in my arms. She grabs my arm, holding it in both of her hands.  
  
"I... don't believe it," she gasps. "How... I don't... I... I..."  
  
"Shhhh," I smooth her hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Quiet now. It will be okay, B'Elanna. You'll get through this. It will be okay."  
  
"They... everything, my family, oh God," she is shivering now and I hold her tighter.  
  
"You're strong, B'Elanna," I tell her. "You're a survivor. You'll survive this."  
  
"When we go back, they won't be there," she says.  
  
I don't give her my usual spiel about the people who care about her here on Voyager. To B'Elanna, her family is the Maquis, the people who unconditionally accepted her and placed no burdens or demands on her. To know that they are all gone, dead, wiped-out, is a devastating blow to her.  
  
"How could it happen?" she whispers. She is calm now, her voice hoarse from endless tears.   
  
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But things like this happen..."  
  
"Do you think it was a big battle?"  
  
And because it's important to her, I agree.   
  
"Honorable," she sniffles.   
  
"Yes," I say.   
  
"That's all that matters, right?"  
  
"If it makes you feel a little better, yes."  
  
"It doesn't," she admits. "But it helps."  
  
In my mind, I see the wound healing cleanly. No scar tissue here. I caress her cheek gently, rubbing one tear away with my thumb.  
  
"B'Elanna?"  
  
But she is sleeping now, worn out. We lay there together on the sofa and I try to imagine this battle that wiped out the Maquis.  
  
When she wakes, I will tell her all about it. \\  
  
****  
  
The Borg cube looms on the view screen. My earlier exhaustion, a result of lack of sleep, is gone. I'm wide-awake now and if anyone else is sleeping on the job, the klaxons and flashing red lights surely should wake them up.  
  
If I can look at a Borg cube without any emotion, I see it as a work of art. Somehow, these boxy structures manage to move through space faster than any other known vessel. The architecture is complex, rough and unfinished, unlike the sleek, smooth surfaces of Starfleet vessels.  
  
There is a secret there, one worth bringing back to the Alpha Quadrant; somehow the Borg have managed to overturn the conventional theory of aerodynamics. If Seven knows how, she has not shared that knowledge with us and I don't blame her; it's not like we're going to redo Voyager into a facsimile of a Borg cube and hence it would not be an efficient use of resources to reveal that particular secret.  
  
When this is all over, I would love to know.  
  
Unless we're all assimilated, in which case the knowledge on how a cube can move through space is completely irrelevant.  
  
Living on a Borg cube, regardless of the fact of assimilation, is not a pleasant thought.  
  
Unlike the interiors of a Starfleet ship though, the Borg cubes are less than luxurious. Inside, the narrow corridors are lined with wires and steel beams, almost as if in a state of perpetual construction. But it's the noise that gets me - that hum that is a low buzz in your ear. At first, the buzz is innocuous but then it slowly drives you insane; a Borg version of the Chinese water torture.   
  
The Bridge is silent as we watch the ship approach us.   
  
My heart beats faster. B'Elanna, B'Elanna, B'Elanna...  
  
Chakotay is first to react.  
  
"Shields up," he says.   
  
"At one hundred percent," Harry answers.   
  
"Chakotay to Seven."  
  
"Yes, Commander?" her voice is slightly foggy over the com system.   
  
"Any other Borg in the vicinity?"  
  
"No," she replies.  
  
Well, thank goodness for small favors.  
  
"Cross your fingers," I pipe up. The phrase is lost on everyone but Harry who   
offers back a painful smile.   
  
"Dropping to impulse," I say. God, I wish we had a cloaking device. It would have been wonderful to have dropped out warp right in front of the cube. We could be done and on our way before the Borg even knew we were there.  
  
But the Romulans aren't known for sharing their technology and when we left the Alpha Quadrant, things weren't so good with the Klingons now.  
  
Hell, things could be a lot worse back home than they are now.  
  
I'll be sure to point that out when this is all said and done.  
  
After we win, of course.  
  
Otherwise, it's irrelevant.  
  
"Detecting low level radiation," I say. "Their shields are up."  
  
"Seven!" Chakotay barks.  
  
"Yes, Commander?" Seven asks.  
  
"I thought you said they would lower their shields."  
  
"I did," and typically Seven, she offers no more information. Explanations take up too much type, in her opinion, and decrease efficiency. She is exactly the type of person who will do something on her own rather than delegate because it is easier to do it herself.  
  
Chakotay's sigh is loud enough for the entire Bridge to hear. He is pacing again, wearing a path in the newly cleaned carpets.  
  
"We're being hailed," Harry says.   
  
"On screen," Chakotay is back to attention.   
  
It's the Borg Queen.  
  
"Hello Harry," she purrs. I spin around to see Harry's reaction; he blanches. Evidently, his last conversation with the Borg Queen was less than pleasant or perhaps he cut that class at the Academy where they teach you how to behave in front of alien royalty. Or maybe it's the black metallic tubules on her fingers that have his attention. Whatever it is, Harry is less than pleased to be in front of the Borg Queen.  
  
I don't blame her; attractive in a black widow type way, it's hard to get past the fact that this woman can, without remorse, destroy entire civilizations and not think about it twice.  
  
I imagine she and Janeway would have quite a lot to discuss, and while I think Janeway has her points, this particular argument would have to go to the Queen based on the pure evil quotient. The woman with the nanoprobes is always right, no exceptions.  
  
Plus it's difficult to argue morality when your opponent has no heart.  
  
"It has been quite a while," the Queen goes on conversationally. The tone of her voice indicates she could be at a tea party, sipping delicately from a china cup. Hell, put a hat on her, a nicely coifed wig and she could be at the horse races and fit in perfectly.  
  
"One hundred and one days exactly," Chakotay says. Why he bothers, I don't know. I imagine the Queen knows exactly how long it's been down to the nanosecond.  
  
"I was wondering how long it would take you to retrieve your people," the Queen comments. "They have served me well. Their performance has been exemplary. My compliments to Starfleet."  
  
Chakotay is visibly riled.  
  
"We are not leaving without them," he says.  
  
"You can't win, Commander. Your shields will never withstand a full Borg assault."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure. We have had time to work on our shield strength. You may   
be unpleasantly surprised."  
  
"If you attack, you risk killing your own people," the Queen continues on pleasant. "After detecting your presence here, I have ordered them to the core. In order to destroy us, you will have to aim a direct hit to the core. In addition, the multi-phasic shielding prevents you from beaming them out. So you see, Commander Chakotay, it does not matter what enhancements you have made to your shields, I still win."  
  
Damn she's good.   
  
I bet she plays a mean hand of poker too.   
  
Chakotay is thinking. You can almost hear his thoughts. Attack or not? So far, the Queen has not shown any direct hostility or aggression towards us. We can leave now, cut our losses, send Christmas cards every year to Janeway, Tuvok and Torres.   
  
Janeway would not hesitate here. She would attack and she would do it   
deliberately and quickly. Chakotay is more pensive; he understands the costs and he can weigh the consequences.   
  
Is it worth risking Voyager and its crew for the lives of three people?  
  
// "I wrote a letter," I say. We are in the holodeck. I'm lying on my back while B'Elanna sits next to me, rubbing lotion into her legs. It has been some time since we have visited this program. Our conflicting schedules have kept us away and some weeks, I find myself spending more time with Harry than with B'Elanna.   
  
We have been reduced to hellos and good-byes, nothing in between.   
  
"A letter?" B'Elanna stops and looks down at me.  
  
"Yes," I say. I sit up.  
  
"You have to work on that stomach," B'Elanna says unkindly. I make a face at   
her.  
  
"You didn't hear what I said," I say. "When we were crashing, when I thought I was going to do, I dictated a letter to you."  
  
"That's sweet."  
  
"Do you want to know what it said?"  
  
"Not especially," she goes back to smoothing lotion over her legs. I am irritated. Somehow her legs rank higher than my dying thoughts? It is truly   
humbling.  
  
"Why are you putting sun block on?" I ask. "This isn't even real sun. You can't get burned with the holodeck safeties on."  
  
B'Elanna tosses me a look of exasperation, "It's for effect, Tom. This is what people do at the beach."  
  
Ooohh, it's that voice again. Definitely sounds like my mother. Not a good thing, definitely not a good think.   
  
I reach out and trail my fingers up and down her leg and then up to her thigh.   
  
The look B'Elanna gives me is positively lascivious; my mother never looked at me that way.   
  
"Do you do that?" I ask as B'Elanna smacks my hand away.  
  
"Write letters?"  
  
"Yes. Before going on an away mission. I mean, I thought I was going to die when I wrote that letter."  
  
"Sometimes," she says.  
  
"To whom?" now I'm curious.  
  
She arches an eyebrow at me, "Why the twenty questions, Tom?"  
  
"I just want to know where I stand with you. You are the last person I thought of when I was at death's door. I want to know if you feel the same."  
  
She smiles then and leans over to kiss me.  
  
"I hope you never find out," she whispers.   
  
I lay back down on my beach towel. Cryptic as always, but giving me enough information to tell me what I want to know.  
  
She's right. I don't want to know.  
  
It wouldn't be worth it. \\  
  
  
It's a classic western showdown. Who will blink first? The Borg Queen's smooth white skin, stretched tightly over an extensive capillary network of green-tinged veins, shows no sign of tension. Chakotay, on the other hand, is flustered. He has never been terrific at staring down the opposition. He is best at talking things out, bringing the other person to see his point of view. Logically. Passively. Without bloodshed. That's Chakotay's way. It's not the Queen's.  
  
If the Queen has her way, we would send the Chakotay and some poor automaton out to some planet and they would face each other, phasers on kill. Aim, fire, and the one left standing gets custody of the three drones: Janeway, Tuvok and Torres.  
  
Chakotay makes the universal "cut the volume" sign by drawing his finger across his neck. I'm sure they have a class at the Academy where they teach such skills, along with great command poses and penetrating stares. They probably teach inflection and enunciation in an advanced class.  
  
"Audio signal terminated," Harry reports. I look back up; the Borg Queen is still there, not happy that we have cut her out of the loop. Her lips moves but   
we hear nothing. It's rather comical, but I get the feeling that one should not laugh at the Queen of Borg; rumor has it she has quite the temper.  
  
"Suggestions?" Chakotay asks.  
  
The Borg Queen is still watching us; I wonder if she reads lips. I bet she can and I bet she can read them in the seven million known languages. She probably even knows pig Latin, a language I am fluent in.  
  
The turbolift opens and Seven erupts, literally, out of it. She gazes back at the offending lift and then turns back to face us. She visibly recoils at the image of the Borg Queen, stretching from floor to ceiling, in front of her.  
  
"Seven," Chakotay recovers smoothly. "Something to report?"  
  
"Our plan will succeed," she says quickly, never taking her eyes away from the Queen. "The shields will be lowered in approximately three minutes."  
  
We don't ask how she knows this; with Seven, you can never tell. She probably   
fashioned some kind of telepathic link out of one of her neural implants, gave the Collective a piece of her mind and got them back on track.  
  
Who needs a Swiss Army knife when you have a Borg drone?  
  
"Harry," Chakotay says urgently, his back now to the Queen. "In exactly three minutes, send out a spread of torpedoes. Aim anywhere except the core."  
  
"Aye, sir," Harry says.  
  
"Tom, be prepared to take evasive maneuvers quickly," Chakotay says. "Seven, be prepared to drop shields to transport the Captain and the others. Harry, turn audio back on."  
  
By now the Queen is visibly agitated. We have been talking about her in front of her face and she doesn't like it.  
  
"Well?" her eyes are darting back and forth now.   
  
"Let's discuss this," Chakotay steps forward, holding his hands out in a gesture of reconciliation. "We can work this out."  
  
"What do you suggest?" she is positively purring now.   
  
"You beam to Voyager with a member of your... crew and we can hammer out a deal. Something acceptable to you and also to us."  
  
"Janeway," the Queen snarls, "committed an act of sabotage against the Borg. This is not something we can easily forgive."  
  
"They're powering weapons," Harry warns in a low voice.  
  
Chakotay remains calm, almost as if Harry never even spoke.  
  
"We understand how you feel," Chakotay continues. "I'm sure, if our roles were reserved, we would experience some of the same emotions."  
  
I am almost expecting him to burst into his "forgiveness is good for the soul" speech. There's a quality about Chakotay's soliloquies that provokes one to experience great emotion. A tearjerker of a speech, if you will, and Chakotay's damn good at getting you in touch with your innermost emotions. You can't help but want to stand up and give everyone a hug when he is done speaking.  
  
No wonder the Captain is so fond of him.  
  
The Queen considers Chakotay's request. She doesn't trust him; if I were her, I'd trust my instincts too and disregard Chakotay's plea. But there is something so sincere and earnest about our First Officer, she can't help but agree.  
  
Plus, she holds all of the cards in her hand anyway. She's got Janeway and we,   
well, we've got enhanced shields.   
  
"You come here," she says. "You may bring one member of your crew."  
  
Well, we'll take what we can.  
  
Chakotay turns around and Harry gives him an almost imperceptible nod.   
  
I love that. Love those silent communication signals. They are supposed to be subtle but are really blatant in their obviousness. And I bet the Borg Queen, with her enhanced vision, probably caught Harry's little nod.  
Chakotay directs his attention back at the Queen and strides forward.  
  
"That won't be necessary," Chakotay says. "Harry?"  
  
The Queen's image on the screen is replaced with that of the Borg cube and the   
four torpedoes fanning out en route.   
  
"Tom," Chakotay says urgently as the Borg return fire.   
  
"Taking evasive maneuvers now, sir," I reply.  
  
The ship shudders as one of the Borg torpedoes slams into our shields.  
"Harry?" Chakotay steadies himself against the Captain's chair.  
  
"We're holding steady. Eighty percent."  
  
"Their shields are completely down," Seven reports. "We only have five minutes   
before they will be repaired. We must act quickly."  
  
"Start scanning for the Captain and the others," Chakotay answers.  
  
"The Borg are hailing us," Harry reports.  
  
"Ignore them," Chakotay says with a noticeable bite. "Seven, any luck locating   
our people?"  
  
"They are by the core as the Queen stated," Seven answers. "I'm locking onto them now and also to two other drones."  
  
"Energize when you're ready. Harry, fire at will."  
  
Harry grins and fires off another round. The Borg don't like getting shot at; they return fire, but once again our shields hold, but we are all thrown to the floor. I get back into my seat, trying to steady the ship from this latest impact.  
  
"I have them," there is quiet triumph in Seven's voice.   
  
"On Voyager?" Chakotay's voice trembles.  
  
"In the transporter room," Seven confirms.  
  
There's no time to think of what this mean; the Borg are out there and damn, they are angry.   
  
"Aim slightly to the left of the core, Harry," Chakotay orders. "Don't destroy them but cripple them so they can't come after us."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
"Two minutes left," Seven says tensely. The ship rocks as the Borg cube sends off another volley.  
  
"Shields holding at fifty percent," Harry says. "I'm rerouting power now... and firing... now!"  
  
Eight torpedoes speed towards the cube and then a second later, a massive explosion ripples through the cube.  
Voyager rides the shockwave, drifting dangerously close to the cube.   
  
"Tom!" Chakotay barks.  
  
"I'm on it, I'm on it!" I yell back. I struggle to regain control of the helm and we pass within twelve kilometers of the cube - too close for comfort.   
  
"Rerouting power," Seven announces. "Lieutenant, you have impulse."  
  
"Thanks," I say, biting my lip. "Let's try this again."  
  
This time, Voyager complies and we are able to escape the wreck of the Borg cube.   
  
Chakotay lets out his breath.  
  
"Good work," he says but all eyes are on the view screen at the burnt shell of the cube. "Get us out of here, Tom"  
  
"With pleasure," I say.  
  
****  
  
I can barely restrain myself from heading to sickbay the moment Voyager was out of direct danger from the Borg.  
  
"I'm coming with you," Harry says as I head out into the turbolift.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because..." Harry says. "You are my friend, Tom, and there are some things you don't let friends do alone."  
  
I give Harry a questioning look. Harry shrugs.  
  
"Good firing," I say. "Tuvok would be proud."  
  
"I was holding my breath the whole time," Harry says. "What if Seven was wrong? What if those shields were never coming down?"  
  
"But they did."  
  
"Thank God."  
  
A truer sentiment was never said.  
  
"Harry, I've been meaning to ask," I say. "Back then, back when all this was starting, you talked to the Borg Queen..."  
  
"Yeah," he looks distinctly uncomfortable. The turbolift doors open and we spill out into the corridor. Voyager has sustained a considerable amount of damage and the repair crews are already about. We pass Vorick, Carey, Nicoletti and a few others on our way.  
  
"What did you talk about?" I ask.  
  
"You know, the usual."  
  
"No, I don't know. You've got to be more detailed than that, Harry."  
  
"She asked me how I was and I told her. She asked me what was new in my life and I told her. You know, small talk."  
  
"You small talked with the Borg Queen?"  
  
"Well, it wasn't anything serious. We certainly did not discuss Borg Federation relations at all."  
  
We reach sickbay and Harry puts his hand on my shoulder.  
  
"Tom, you know... you know what to expect right? I mean, it might not be B'Elanna in there or it might be."  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I appreciate your concern, Harry. Really, I do. But whatever it is, we'll get through it, B'Elanna and I. We'll do it together."  
  
// "You were really serious about learning Klingon?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah, whenever you want, we'll do it," I tell her. She is lying in bed, curled up on her side. I am kneeling on the floor, her hand clasped between mine. She looks peaceful, content, happy in a way I've never seen before.  
  
"It's sweet of you to offer," she murmurs.  
  
"But?"  
  
"This is something I've got to do on my own, Tom. I've spent my entire life trying to be someone I'm not and now I've got to find the real B'Elanna Torres and I'm afraid this is something I can't help with."  
  
I sit back on my heels but don't release her hand.  
  
"I don't understand," I tell her. "I want to help you. Your self-destructive behavior, B'Elanna, it scares me."  
  
"It's going to stop, I promise. I just need some time. I need to figure this out and I need to do it alone."  
  
"You're shutting me out again," I tell her coldly. "If you don't need me, you should just say so. Tell me now so I can cut my losses."  
  
"You're overreacting."  
  
"Am I?" I get to my feet. "Do you need me for anything, B'Elanna? Anything at all other than the obvious?"  
  
"Tom, you're blowing this out of proportion."  
  
"I don't think so. I offer to help you because God, you need the help and I want to be there."  
  
She sits up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest; she looks vulnerable but I'm not moved.  
  
"Answer my question," I plead. "Do you even need me?"  
  
"You know the answer to that question," she says coolly.  
  
I take a deep breath. God, it takes the patience of a thousand saints to deal with this woman.  
  
"There are some things we can do together," she says. "And when I need you, and notice I said when, I will really need you. Do you understand, Tom? I'm just so mixed up inside, I want to sort it all out before I drag someone else in."  
  
"I'm not someone else, B'Elanna. I care about you and if you're too stubborn to see that..."  
  
She is out of bed now, absolutely furious.   
  
"I'm trying, Tom," she says in a controlled voice. With each word, she advances a step towards. "Don't push me."  
  
"You ask me to let you in; I'm only asking the same in return."  
  
She is centimeters away from me and I grab her by the waist.  
  
"B'Elanna, please. It scares me when you want to make a day trip to Grethor. It frightens me when you practice orbital skydiving without the safeties on and it terrifies me that you can't talk about any of this with me."  
  
She cups my jaw in her palm.  
  
"I need you," she says it very softly. "That frightens me too."  
  
"Terrifying, isn't it?"  
  
She nods and I brush away a tear with my thumb.  
  
"So let me help," I say. "Humor me, okay? And if I get annoying, you can tell me   
to leave."  
  
"And you will?"  
  
"Without question."  
  
She wraps her arms around my neck, leaning into me.  
  
"I love you, Tom Paris," she whispers. "But you have to understand that there are some things I can't share with you. I'm not shutting you out, Tom, and I appreciate everything you've said and everything you want to do. Please believe that."  
  
She says this whole speech in that tiny little girl's voice; the one that says she's trying so hard to be a grown-up.  
  
I hold her close.  
  
"Just promise me," I whisper into her ear. "We'll do most of this together."  
  
"I promise," she chokes into my shoulder.   
  
We stand there, our arms wrapped around each other, neither willing to let go.  
  
It's not everything, but it's a start. \\  
  
  
There are times when you are mentally prepared, when you are even willing to accept, but then you come face to face with reality and it's like slamming into a brick wall at thirty kilometers an hour.  
  
There are five of them and I can't help myself, but I think of them as "them." Five drones, all in shiny black with matching silver accessories. The latest in Delta Quadrant fashion.  
  
None of them are facing us but it does not matter.  
  
I know which one is B'Elanna immediately; I know those shoulders, that back, that neck so intimately, even in this ribbed armor of hers.  
  
The Doctor is in shock; I can tell because he can't even speak. He just stares at his tricorder and then back at the drones.  
  
"Doctor," I say gaily. He looks relieved to see me.  
  
"Mr. Paris," he says. "I could use your help."  
  
Harry is a couple steps behind me and he has stopped short. The drones have taking this moment to turn around and there they are: Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna. They offer us blank stares. My heart beats faster. Do they not   
remember us?  
  
It's only been one hundred and one days. How could they forget? How could she forget?  
  
I take a step forward.   
  
Her hair is gone. That lovely, silky hair is gone and instead, her scalp is the same color as her face: pasty white. Her eyes, still brown, dart back and forth, trying desperately to absorb all she can. Hoses of some sort jut out of her back and shoulders and microtubules cover her hands. A flashing red light, embedded in a cone-shaped object, covers her right eye.   
  
The others look similar with minor variations in hardware and body armor. I can't help myself; I shudder.  
  
I turn to face the others and the Doctor offers me a shrug.   
  
It is impossible to know where to start. I want to say I can get past those Borg trappings, but I can't. My mind is trained to equate Borg with assimilation and the death of millions.  
  
I do not know what part these drones - I mean, B'Elanna, Tuvok, Janeway and the others - had in the assimilations and I don't want to ask.  
  
What you don't know doesn't hurt as much.  
  
But she's here. After all this time, she's finally here and if it were any other circumstances, I would grab her around the waist and kiss her. But thought of those pasty greenish lips...  
  
B'Elanna's eyes flicker. There is something there. I hold out my hand timidly.  
I have to think, have to believe, that B'Elanna is under there somewhere, that she isn't really this machine I'm looking at.  
  
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor says as Harry chimes in, "Tom!"  
B'Elanna's metallic hand grabs mine and holds tightly. God, she still has that death grip; some things never change.  
  
"It's all right," I take a step closer. "B'Elanna, it's me. It's Tom."  
  
Next to her, Janeway fidgets. Tuvok, not surprisingly, does not move; his gaze is focused straight ahead of him. Borgified or not, some things never change.  
  
"You are Tom Paris," B'Elanna says in a mechanical voice. "Lieutenant, chief   
helm officer on the starship Voyager, commanding officer Captain Kathryn Janeway."  
  
"That's me," I say. Janeway looks fascinated as fascinated as her various implants will allow her by the mention of Captain Kathryn Janeway. Somewhere, in that mechanized body of hers, she remembers. "And you are Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres, chief engineer on the starship Voyager, commanding officer Captain Kathryn Janeway."  
  
The red light covering B'Elanna's eye starts to blink rapidly. I look back at the Doctor questioningly.  
  
"She is scanning you," the Doctor explains. "As are the others."  
  
"Do they -" I indicate all of them, "do they remember us?"  
  
"I think their memories are intact but are deeply recessed. We will need to retrieve those memories as part of the de-assimilation process."  
  
"When do we start?" I release B'Elanna's hand.  
  
"Immediately," the Doctor says as Chakotay enters, followed by Seven of Nine. "I will need your assistance, Mr. Paris."  
  
"You have it."  
  
Seven inspects each drone individually. They look at her questioningly.  
  
"We know you," one of the new arrivals says.  
  
"I am...," Seven is at a loss for words. "You know me as Annika, but here, on Voyager, I am known as Seven of Nine. You are Two of Five, known in Unimatrix Zero as Arundel."  
  
Seven then turns to the other unknown Borg, "You are Three of Twelve, known in Unimatrix Zero as Ennis."  
  
Seven turns to face us - Chakotay, Harry, the Doctor and I - wearing a proud expression.  
  
"Arundel and Ennis," she says again. "He is from the homeworld of Malnia."  
  
"The gorges," I remember.  
  
"And Ennis is from Cadera," Seven continues.  
  
"Welcome aboard," Chakotay says. In a low voice, he asks the Doctor, "How long will it be?"  
  
"It will take... some time," the Doctor is obviously struggling with the answer to this question.   
  
"Well, get started," Chakotay says impatiently.  
  
"I am going to sedate you all," the Doctor says.   
  
"Be calm," Seven advises.  
  
"Mr. Paris, prepare for surgery," the Doctor commands.   
  
I nod and turn away. I know by heart where the drugs are, where the instruments are; so many times I've come in late at night and imagined laying them out, just as I am doing now.  
  
Harry joins me.  
  
"Well?" he whispers.  
  
"It's not as bad as I anticipated."  
  
"You're lying. Tell the truth."  
  
I take a deep breath. How to confess what I feel? That I look at that Borg drone and even though I know it's B'Elanna, I still see Borg? And when she spoke, her tone was clipped and mechanical, not the fiery voice I'm used to.   
  
"It's all right, Tom," Harry pats me on the shoulder as I lay out the instruments.  
  
I swallow hard.  
  
"I've been doing some research," I say in a low voice. "In preparation for this. I'm guessing that Janeway, Tuvok, B'Elanna - their modifications are superficial, not quite a part of their systems yet. I read up on Captain Picard's experience as Locutus of Borg and he was completely de-assimilated by Dr. Beverly Crusher, with no lasting effects."  
  
"Other than psychological," Harry says.  
  
"You've been reading too," I smile.  
  
"I figure it didn't hurt to know what we're up against. So you think they'll be back to normal?"  
  
"Yeah, pretty much," I toss a look back at the drones. "I don't know about Ennis and Arundel though. Don't know how long they have been with the Collective."  
  
We hear Seven explaining what is about to happen; her voice is soft and gentle. I am impressed.   
  
I always claim that when it comes to contradictions, B'Elanna takes the cake, but I'm rapidly coming to see that Seven might prove worthy competition for that particular title. Her recent openness, the concern she displayed regarding the other drones on the Borg cube, and now, the gentleness in her tone, it shows that she has come such a long way.  
  
Janeway's project has succeeded in becoming an individual.   
  
"Let me help you," Harry steadies my hand. "You're going to drop those."  
  
"Thanks," I let out my breath. "Harry, this isn't going to be easy. And I'm not just talking about me. It's going to take some time for all us to... adapt."  
Harry offers me a crooked grin.   
  
"Now you sound like Seven," he says.   
  
"Now, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says loudly.   
  
"We're all done here," I say cheerfully. I turn around to see the biobeds covered with Borg.  
  
Damn, I'm going to have to stop doing that. Think of them by name. Think of them as Kathryn Janeway, Tuvok, B'Elanna Torres, Arundel and Ennis. Not Borg. Individuals.  
  
"Ready," I say. I look at Chakotay who is once again wearing his tense face.   
"All right," the Doctor says. "Everyone out. Sickbay is closed."  
  
"You will keep me informed?" Chakotay asks.  
  
"Of course," the Doctor nods. "But for now, everyone out."  
  
****  
  
//"How do you feel?"   
  
I stretch and roll over in bed. B'Elanna is sitting up, the strap of her red nightgown falling slightly over one shoulder.  
  
"Like a million elephants just pounded on my skull," I groan into the pillow. She strokes my back lightly.  
  
"This is what happens when you take your chances with neural interfaces," she says. "I hope you learned your lesson."  
  
"Believe me," I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. "I have no desire to repeat that experience again."  
  
"Good," she says. "I don't want to lecture you, Tom, but it was irresponsible of you. You should have let me or Harry or even Seven check it out before you   
hooked yourself up to Alice."  
  
"I didn't think something like this would happen."  
  
"You're not immortal, you know."  
  
"I'm starting to get that feeling."  
  
She laughs, deep and throaty.  
  
"Are you going to sleep through your entire sick leave?"  
  
"I feel like I could," I confess.   
  
B'Elanna snuggles back down under the covers, draping her arm across my chest. She props her chin up on the back of her hand and looks down at me.   
  
"I'll check on you," she says. "Do you need anything?"  
  
"No, not for now," I rest my palm on the small of her back. "Do you forgive me?"  
  
She offers me a big smile, "Of course."  
  
"No, really."  
  
"As long as it doesn't happen again. I'm tired of watching over you in sickbay-"  
"You are tired? What about me? I'm constantly in sickbay because you've taken an unnecessary risk or you've been attacked by some strange alien entity. B'Elanna, I don't think you can really claim innocence on this point."  
  
"Maybe not," she says, reaching up to ruffle my hair. "Maybe we should make a   
pact?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Neither of us in sickbay again for the duration of our time in the Delta Quadrant."  
  
"Sounds like a tall order," I chuckle.  
  
"Do you agree?" she asks earnestly.  
  
"You're serious?"  
"Completely serious. Come on, Tom."  
  
I think about all the times we have disagreed on things as simple as what to eat for dinner or where to go on our holodeck vacations. Mostly, we just take the easy way out by doing something neither of us really cares for. Agreeing is not something we do particularly well.  
  
But there is a first time for everything.  
  
"I promise. Do you promise?"  
  
"With all my heart," she says with a cheeky grin.  
  
"B'Elanna."  
  
"I do," she giggles and stretches up to kiss my nose. "I promise." \\  
  
  
It has been twenty-nine hours straight. One drone down, four to go. Even drones have rank and we do Janeway first.  
  
My research is correct; the assimilation is purely superficial - the implants haven't had time to fully integrate into her system. But still, it is painstaking work to remove what implants are there.  
  
My neck hurts from bending over her prone figure; even my eyes are starting to give out.  
  
"Are you all right, Mr. Paris?" the Doctor asks in a low voice.   
  
"Fine," I say sharply. I take a quick reading; her vitals are stable. Slowly, Kathryn Janeway is becoming more recognizable.  
  
"Are you tired? Do you need to rest?" the Doctor queries.  
  
I want to say no but my body is saying something completely different.  
  
"It does not help if you are tired," the Doctor goes on in his best preachy   
tone. "I advise you get some rest immediately."  
  
"I'll just, um, get on a biobed," I point.  
  
"No. I order you to your quarters."  
  
I give him a look as if to say, "huh?" but then I agree he's right. I don't think I can sleep given the proximity of the drones - uh, and I do it again.   
  
"I've got to stop that," I say.  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
"Stop thinking of them as drones, as Borg. I can't help it. I look at them and I see Borg."  
  
"It's B'Elanna," the Doctor drags me over to the biobed where B'Elanna lies.   
  
"I know that. Logically, I know that. That's not the problem," I argue.  
  
The Doctor sighs, "Get some rest. I'll continue here. Report back in eight hours."  
  
"Will you be all right?"  
  
"Yes," he says. "Do not worry about me, Mr. Paris. You need some rest."  
  
I pause by B'Elanna's bio bed and hesitantly, I stretch out a finger to touch her cheek. I wonder what it will feel like? Smooth? Slimy? Cold? Turns out, the answer is all of the above. I pull my hand back and stare down at her face.  
  
"Something the matter?" the Doctor calls.  
  
"Uh, I'm wondering if she is, um, dreaming," I say. I look down fascinated. Back when B'Elanna had eyelashes - and I say this because the Borgified B'Elanna lacks them - she dreamt. Now, I can't tell. Her jaw is tight, her skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones and there is that barely audible hum emanating from one or more of her implants. I shiver.  
  
"Now, Mr. Paris," the Doctor points to the door.  
  
I do not really notice the walk back my quarters. Chills run up and down my spine and my eyelids feel vaguely itchy as if there is a dust particle or two or three embedded within my eye.  
  
Somehow, I end up in bed, fully dressed minus my boots; those made it off of my feet by some supernatural force because I lack the energy. I am sleeping before my head even hits the pillow.  
  
// It's dark and smells like cleaning solution, not unlike the fluid used so recently to clean the carpets on Voyager. Green light shines everywhere throughout my hazy surroundings. It is cold here. Loud too. The noise, God, it's impossible to escape. I cover my ears and I am looking for a way out. There are no doors, just endless corridors of metallic construct, girded and beamed, with wires hanging out of orifices. Everything is angular and sharp; nothing smooth, nothing pretty. My boots clatter against the duranium floor. I only stop once to notice that the floor is a weave and between the spaces I can see forever. If I fall, I fall forever.  
  
The noise grows louder and I sink to my knees, my hands firmly over my ears. I want to shriek for it all to stop but my teeth are chattering and suddenly, every muscle in my body spasms.   
  
And then the shadow comes. One, then two, and finally, the third. They are there, huge hulking figures attired in sculpted black armor, their one eye glowing red, and their fingers, hands, arms reaching outward.  
  
"Resistance is futile," they intone in one voice. "You will be assimilated."  
"No!" I scream. "No!" \\  
  
  
I sit up, gasping. A dream, Tom, only a dream. But some details felt astonishingly real and it was almost if I was back on the Borg cube, a science fair project for a bunch of kid drones to practice assimilation technique on.  
I calm my breathing and get out of bed.  
  
"Computer, time?" I ask.  
  
"The time is 0742 hours," she responds cheerfully.  
  
Great thing about a computer is that it isn't made out of flesh and blood; it doesn't need sleep and certainly doesn't need coffee to wake it up. That voice is perpetually chipper and always helpful except for when it doesn't want to be.  
  
And that's when you are in trouble.  
  
I look back at my bed, at the covers that have fallen to the floor.   
  
"Deep breaths, Tom, deep breaths," I tell myself as I pace the length of the room.  
  
It's no use going back to sleep; my heart is pounding. So I dress and head directly to sickbay, skipping breakfast; I don't think I can keep anything down anyway.  
  
The Doctor is off-line, but I notice immediately that Janeway is completely restored and sleeping. Chakotay stands next to her. When he notices my presence, he drops the Captain's hand immediately.  
  
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Chakotay says pleasantly. I make my way over to Janeway and study her. Everything looks normal, all the right parts in all the right places. No Borg hardware remaining that I can see.   
  
The Doctor does good work but it's best not to say these things aloud; his ego is already well-inflated.  
  
I grab the tricorder lying next to the bed and run a quick scan; she looks good. Janeway will be back on her feet in a matter of days, once again ready to run roughshod over anyone who dares even toss a dirty look in the direction of her little Voyager collective.  
  
Chakotay has returned to his usual reticent self and I let him be. Instead I turn to look at B'Elanna. She is exactly as I left her but her breath is raspy and strained.  
  
"Uh," I grab the tricorder. Where to even start with a half-Klingon, half-human and somewhat Borg individual? I run a diagnostic, checking her heart and lungs and other parts of the pulmonary system, but find nothing.  
  
"It's the body armor," the Doctor says from behind me. "It is crushing her chest."  
  
"We've got to do something," I say desperately.  
  
"Calm, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says.   
  
"Calm? You want me to be calm? B'Elanna could be dying!"  
  
"I assure you that she is not."  
  
"You just said that the armor is crushing her chest," I remind him.  
  
The Doctor presses a hypo against B'Elanna's neck.  
  
"This should relieve some of the pressure," the Doctor says. He goes to check on the others while I hover over B'Elanna.   
  
After a moment, the Doctor returns and his expression is concerned.  
  
"We do B'Elanna next," he says. "But they are all in critical condition."  
  
"What is going on?" Chakotay comes over, hands behind his back, his shoulders leaning slightly forward. It is, in my humble opinion, Chakotay's best pose and probably the one he uses to get all the girls.  
  
But it also has the look of interest, of caring, and that's Chakotay's strength is. He doesn't have to pretend to care because he honestly does and he does not have to make up things because he is sincere. He says what he means and when he acts, it is completely from the heart.  
  
It is an admirable trait.  
  
The Doctor explains quickly but at the same time, he is prepping B'Elanna for shoulder.  
  
Without thinking about it at all, I grab her hand.  
  
"It will be okay," I whisper in her ear, hoping she can hear me. "We're going to get you out of there. I promise."  
  
// I am five. The closet is dark, hot, stuffy. The smell of old leather permeates the air and it's impossible to find a place to sit; the boots and other odd items clutter the floor.  
  
I pound on the door but Jenna doesn't hear. She has probably wandered off somewhere with Kevin; he comes over a lot and they kiss. Sometimes I wonder why she even wants to spend time here watching me if all she really wants to do is be with Kevin.  
  
It hurts my feelings; I'm at least as fun as Kevin but she never kisses me the way she kisses him. She doesn't even really look at me and only talks to me if I've done something terrible.  
  
Sometimes she makes me lunch if she is in a good mood.   
  
But today is different.  
  
She is fidgety, nervous about something and won't tell me about it. And that's how I ended up in the closet. She said, "You go hide, Tom, and I'll find you, okay?"  
  
So I went into the closet because it's such a good place to hide behind all of the coats.  
  
Jenna never comes.  
  
I pound on the door but nothing. I scream, I cry, but no Jenna.  
  
All around me, I see monsters. The lone mop becomes the medusa of ancient mythology; the hangers with their metal clips are pinchers, waiting to grab me around the neck.  
  
And then the door opens.   
  
Jenna.  
  
She is crying.  
  
"Oh Tom," she sobs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to leave you in there. I just lost all track of time..."  
  
I scramble out of the closet and slam the door behind me. Jenna kneels and wipes my tears away.  
  
"We won't say anything about this, right?" she whispers. "It's our secret. Yours and mine, okay? Tom, promise."  
  
I love Jenna so I promise.  
  
But every time I walk pass the closet, I can't help but think of those two hours when I lay there, alone and in the dark.  
  
And I never want to be there again. \\  
  
The Doctor moves briskly. There are advantages to being a hologram; endless and boundless energy and enthusiasm, to name a couple. He even hums Italian arias underneath his breath as he works on B'Elanna. I mostly hover, handing him the necessary instruments and injecting her with various drugs as the Doctor commands.  
  
Chakotay comes in every now and then to check on our progress. At one point, he grabs me by the shoulder and propels me into the Doc's office.  
  
"When was the last time you slept, Tom?" he asks.  
  
I lean back in my chair, "Last night."  
  
"No, really, Tom," Chakotay seats himself on the edge of the desk.  
  
I sigh and let my eyes drift to the Doctor, to B'Elanna and then to the remaining Borg drones.  
  
"I have nightmares," I say softly. "Of when I was on the Borg cube. It makes it difficult to sleep."  
  
"That's understandable, but you need to rest, Tom. The Doctor needs you."  
  
"He doesn't need me," I answer. "You could do what I'm doing, even Seven. I'm here because I want to be."  
  
"Could have fooled me."  
  
Our eyes meet. I'm the first to blink.  
  
"Don't hurt her, Tom," Chakotay says finally. "She's been through a lot and the last thing she needs is your disgust."  
  
"My what?" I am incredulous. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I have been watching you," he says. "The way you've been acting. Frankly, I'm disappointed. I would have expected more from you."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"I'm talking about B'Elanna. You need to look at her as B'Elanna Torres, not as some kind of machine."  
  
I swallow hard. He's right. Of course he's right. I've been telling myself the same thing for the last three days. Think B'Elanna, not Borg. She is not Borg, she is B'Elanna. She just looks like Borg but beneath all of that hardware, she is B'Elanna.   
  
I want to believe this so much, but until she opens her eyes and speaks, I'm not going to know for sure.  
  
Chakotay's face softens.  
  
"I know what you're thinking, Tom," he says. "I had some of the same thoughts. I still have them. I don't what the Captain's going to be like. Will she be the same or will she be completely different? And those are the most simplistic characterizations I can come up with but I understand that it will be more complicated than that. We have a lot of work to do, Tom, and I'm counting you to help B'Elanna and the others to get through the transition. Can I count on you?"  
  
Hell, you'd have to be a heartless bastard to turn down a plea like that.   
  
I was wrong earlier; the Borg queen didn't stand a chance.  
  
"Yes," I say. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't apologize to me," he nods in the direction of B'Elanna.  
  
I rub my hand across my eyes. Sleep threatens me, inching into every corner of my brain until I can barely think. But there is a thought that nags at me; something I have to know the answer to.  
  
"Chakotay," I say. He turns around.  
  
"What is it, Tom?"  
  
"Before Seven came to the Bridge to tell us that the Borg would lower their shields, what were you going to do?"  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"During that moment of silence," I say. "When the Borg Queen and you were negotiating, you knew that Voyager was no match for the cube. What would you have done if Seven hadn't come in at that very moment?"  
  
"Lucky for us, wasn't it?" Chakotay offers me his trademark crooked smile.  
  
"Dumb luck if you ask me," I answer. "Well?"  
  
"To be frank, Tom, I don't know. I replay it in my head over and over again but   
  
I do not know what I would have done."  
  
"Would you have left them behind?"  
  
Long silence. I can almost hear Chakotay's brain processing this question. He   
can't answer this question and come out ahead; it's not possible.  
  
"I don't know," he says. "I can't tell you anything more than that."  
  
By the tone of his voice, I know our conversation is over; he has shared with me all that ever will. Now that the Captain is back, he has no need to ever confide in Tom Paris again.  
  
We can go back to disliking each other, tolerating each other only because B'Elanna wants us to.   
  
I love the status quo as much as the next man. There is something very comforting in constancy; change stirs up the stomach, dredges up all sorts of unpleasantness.   
  
But I want this all to change. I want Chakotay to know that I respect him.   
I want him to respect me.  
  
The very thought surprises me. Six years ago, the brash, stubborn pilot that was Tom Paris wanted very little to do with the cool-headed Maquis pilot. Our history together made for disaster and I was not willing to extend him the courtesy he deserved.   
  
And I did not care what he thought of me. In my mind, only Janeway's opinion mattered; Chakotay, to quote a Borg friend of mine, was irrelevant.  
  
"Get some rest," Chakotay says over his shoulder. "I will assist the Doctor."  
  
****  
  
Crisis comes at hour twenty-four of the operation.   
  
"Something's wrong," the Doctor says as the machines began to beep violently. I turn to the machines.  
  
"Her heart," I say. "Erratic heartbeat. I'm also reading a decrease in neural pathway activity."  
  
"Ten milligrams of Jaxite," the Doctor is already halfway across the room in search of something.  
  
I find the Jaxite and inject it into the side of B'Elanna's neck. Her body jerks.  
  
"We've got to get this off of her," I pull violently at the various hoses on her body. "It's suffocating her!"  
  
"Mr. Paris, calm down!" the Doctor is back at my side. "Don't do anything rash."  
  
"It's killing her," I tell him desperately.  
  
"Calm, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says. "Please."  
  
I watch as he disengages some of the hoses and then injects B'Elanna with another drug.  
  
"This didn't happen with the Captain," I say.   
  
"The Captain is human," the Doctor says. "The side-effects vary."  
  
Oh yes, side effects. How could I possibly forget that long litany of what might and what could possibly happen if one went through de-assimilation?  
  
I suppose you forget what you do not want to remember.  
  
I grab her hand and wonder of wonders, her fingers curl around my hand. The action may be completely reflexive, but it does not matter to me.  
  
// "B'Elanna, stay with me."   
  
It is cold, so cold. How long have we been here? The evergreen trees are dripping with icicles, lightly coated with snow. Every now and then, there is a crash, an avalanche of snow descending down the slope. I imagine that one of those giant tidal waves might envelope us, sweep us away and we would lie frozen within each other's arms.  
  
I have lost track of time. It could be ten minutes or ten hours since we stumbled off of the path.  
  
B'Elanna's lips are blue and she is still in my arms. I lean down and blow warm air - I hope it's warm - on her face. She looks almost peaceful, her long lashes curling against her face.  
  
I gather her close, thinking that this is a terrible way to end everything. The only mercy is that eventually I too will drift off to sleep and then it will be all over.  
  
"B'Elanna," my voice is hoarse from screaming. She does not stir but my hand on her chest assures me that she is breathing. I can also feel the rhythm of her hearts beneath my palm and not for the first time, I thank her Klingon genome for its study architecture.  
  
She might despise that Klingon part of herself but I cherish it.  
  
And then, "Voyager to Paris."  
  
My frozen lips crack open, "Paris here."  
  
"Prepare for transport."  
  
I lean over B'Elanna, brushing my lips against those Klingon ridges.  
  
"We're going home," I whisper. "We're going home." \\  
  
  
"Are you going to just stand there and watch?" the Doctor snaps.  
  
I jerk back into action. My body is blessed with supernatural abilities; for once in my life, I am absolutely sure of what I am doing and what needs to be done.   
  
We work quickly and then the Doctor nods at me.  
  
"It will be all right, Mr. Paris," he says. "Can you check on the others?"  
  
I nod and back away.  
  
The other drones, Tuvok including, are stable. The Doctor says the Vulcan chemistry has enormous capacity for healing and that his de-assimilation process should take less time than that of B'Elanna's and the Captain's.   
  
I check on Janeway; her pulse is normal, her breathing even. Her skin has flushed to a rosy pink, a welcome change after that unnatural pasty white. Her chestnut hair curls against her cheek as she sleeps.   
  
I watch the Doctor tend to B'Elanna and under his care, her life signs return to   
normal or at least, normal for this potpourri of genetics she has become.  
  
****  
  
In space, there is no differentiation between night and day, only an arbitrary clock set to Federation standard time. I find it rather amusing that we mark off the hours by a standard a quadrant away but why change? We find comfort in that which we find familiar and time is the true constant we can rely on, mostly because it is so arbitrary.  
  
Time, however, does not relieve my anxiety as I stand over B'Elanna. She has come through surgery well, or so the Doctor claims, but I won't believe him until she wakes.  
  
Open your eyes, B'Elanna. Open them. Just a slight muscle movement, that's all.  
Janeway is awake and alert; she is sitting up and drinking coffee, even making a joke or two.  
  
"I missed this on the Borg vessel," she tells me and Chakotay. "No coffee for drones. No nothing for anyone, actually."  
  
"Well, it's good to have you back," Chakotay comments.  
  
She doesn't even know that half of it. I wonder how much Chakotay will tell her.   
  
I suppose it doesn't matter; Janeway will want to know everything in minutia. Every detail, everything, of the one hundred days we were without her.  
  
It would be easy to chronicle the passage of each day in terms of events.  
  
Woke up, reported to duty, went to sleep. Somewhere in there, there was food and maybe good friends, the occasional excursion to the holodeck.   
  
To me, it is all a pointless blur. None of it matters because the infiltration of the Borg cube to spread a nanovirus to preserve the integrity of Unimatrix Zero was an exercise in futility.  
  
Others will argue with me on this particular opinion and I bet the historians slated to write the biographies of Kathryn Janeway will hail the mission as a grand success, her greatest triumph.  
  
Other than, of course, the re-assimilation of the Borg drone, Seven of Nine.  
  
"You're quiet, Tom," Janeway says.  
  
I offer her a smile. I have struggled for the last ten days about how honest I should be with my Captain. Do I tell her how I feel? That I resent that she put herself in danger and included Tuvok and Torres in her escapade?  
  
Of course B'Elanna will argue with me - when she wakes up - that it was her decision, and her decision only, to accompany Janeway on the mission.  
  
That's not the point.  
  
It has never been the point.  
  
When you are captain, you have an obligation to your people.  
  
It's that simple.  
  
There have been other enemies, other battles, but never one where we could deliberately affect the outcome like this one.  
  
We could have walked away this time and it would have been all right.  
  
Our victory is luck. That's what is. Dumb luck but no one will admit it.  
  
Kathryn Janeway certainly never will.  
  
"What are you thinking about?" Chakotay looks over at me. He looks much happier, definitely more at ease.   
  
"I'm glad you're back," I say sincerely. At least that much is true.   
  
****  
  
B'Elanna is awake. Her eyes are alert as she scans the room. She even tries to sit up, but winces. I am at her side immediately, pulling out my tricorder.  
  
"B'Elanna? Are you alive?" I ask her, half-jokingly, half-seriously. She stares   
at me, her eyes wide with fear.   
  
"Tom?" she asks uncertainly.  
  
"That's me, Tom Paris, resident pig at your service," I tell her.   
  
She doesn't look well, not half as well as Janeway did the first time she woke.   
  
It worries me and I'm wondering if something has gone wrong. Maybe we disconnected the wrong wire, flipped the wrong switch, used the wrong drug, I don't know.   
  
"The others?" she is trying to look for Tuvok and Janeway and looks visibly distress when she doesn't see them.  
  
"Released. Back in their quarters," I tell her.  
  
She closes her eyes and the barest hint of water slips under the lid.  
  
"It's so quiet," she whispers. "So quiet."  
  
A hand - B'Elanna's hand, presumably - garbs my heart, squeezes and won't let go. I stand there, my breath coming out unevenly. I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to tell me that she wants to return to the Collective.  
  
And I'm so afraid, so afraid, that B'Elanna, the B'Elanna I remember, is still back there on the Borg cube.  
  
****  
  
B'Elanna, Tuvok and Janeway make exceptional progress in their recoveries. This is according to the Doctor who is now proclaiming himself an expert in the de-assimilation process.  
  
To our relief, none of them, including Arundel and Ennis, have mentioned returning to the Collective, but the nagging fear remains.   
  
It doesn't matter how many times you read a theory in a textbook; until it is put into practice, you don't know how it's actually going to work and that's the scary part.  
  
Even though we have the shining examples of Seven of Nine and Captain Jean-Luc Picard in front of us, how do we know that Janeway, Tuvok, B'Elanna, Arundel and Ennis will do the same?  
  
Wait and see, says the Doctor and much as I'm loathe to admit it, he is right this time.  
  
We can't know and we won't know. The damage is done and now we have to face the consequences.  
  
But the Doctor himself sees no consequences at all. Rather, he puffs out his chest as much as a holographic being can and struts around his sickbay, proud as a peacock.  
  
"No one has performed the de-assimilation as many times as I have," the Doctor says cheerfully as the two of us clean up the sickbay. "I should write a book.   
Yes, this is my legacy. The de-assimilation of Borg drones. I imagine they will want me to lecture once we get back to the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
I don't answer. I have a feeling he has already written that book he is talking about is and imagines himself on the lecture circuit, receiving thunderous applause and gratuitous praise.  
  
I arrange the drugs back into their cabinet, organizing them in alphabetical order and so that their labels face front.  
  
I'm rapidly getting tired of this room. Everywhere I look, I see residual signs of Borg even though the Borg are no longer among us.   
  
Even the air, constantly refiltered, smells of Borg technology.   
  
A medicine vial slips from my hand and I grab it a second after it bounces up from the floor.  
  
"Are you all right?" the Doctor asks.  
  
I nod, handing him the remaining drugs.  
  
"Of course," I say. "It's exhausting."  
  
"Indeed, but it went well," the Doctor says. "I am hopeful they will all be back to normal, though I do hope Lieutenant Torres left her temper behind on the Borg cube."  
  
My fists tighten around the hypospray I am about to hand over.  
  
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor gently extricates the object from my clenched fingers.  
  
"Sorry," I say. "I- I must have drifted off."  
  
"You really need to stop doing that. What if you were piloting Voyager?"  
  
"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I think I'm just tired."  
  
"Get some rest," he says.  
  
This phrase, "get some rest," is becoming a habit with people. I do not know why people feel the need to take care of me. I do not need mothering. I want the strength to do what I want when I want, regardless of consequences. I want the ability to accept the outcomes of my decisions without having to answer to a higher authority.  
  
I suppose I want to be the Captain.  
  
But of course, I cannot say this to the Doctor so I give him a nod and head to my quarters.  
  
****  
  
On my way, I stop in to see B'Elanna. I let myself into her quarters quietly in case she is sleeping.  
  
It has only been thirteen hours since the Doctor discharged B'Elanna and even then, she did not seem quite herself to me. Her eyes flickered back and forth.   
  
Disoriented, I suppose, though she did know who she was.  
  
That, at least, was something.  
  
I had offered to take her back to my quarters but she had seemed resistant to the suggestion and I hadn't wanted to push her.  
  
To be honest, I was relieved, not sure yet how I was going to deal with her and what had happened.  
  
Avoidance, again, is the best medicine for what ails you. If you ignore something or someone long enough, the problem goes away.  
  
I walk into her bedroom and she is lying in bed, the blankets up to her waist, her short hair dark against the white pillow.  
  
Sleeping like that, she looks like B'Elanna.   
  
There is nothing Borg left in her except for the occasional nanoprobe swimming in her bloodstream.  
  
I sit in the armchair opposite her bed and watch her chest rise and fall.  
  
What if there had been something Borg left in her? Would I still be able to...?  
Of course these are thoughts I cannot possibly entertain and at the beginning of this mission, I would never have thought my feelings would have remained constant, Borg or not.  
  
It's amazing how prejudices bleed to the surface, spilling over into every aspect of life, clouding even the soundest of judgements.  
  
B'Elanna stirs and then opens one eye.  
  
"Tom?" she whispers.  
  
I'm at her side, kneeling by the bed.  
  
"Shh," I tell her. "Don't talk."  
  
"It hurts," she whimpers.  
  
"That's because we had to do a little rearranging," I let my fingers brush against her skin. It's soft, smooth, and golden-colored - exactly the way I remember. There are some rough patches of skin where the Borg armor rubbed against her, but it's nothing some lotion can't take care.  
  
"Rearranging?" she rasps.  
  
"Borg implants, they have a way of moving things around," I answer. "You may find at a routine Starfleet physical that some of your organs are a micrometer   
or so out of place."  
  
She reaches out, her fingers weakly stretching for my cheek.  
  
"You look... tired."  
  
"You too?" I ask jokingly, but she doesn't get the comment. Her fingers fall to her side and I cover the hand with mine.   
  
She offers me only a tired and confused look in response.  
  
"Tom, the pain," she whispers.  
  
"I know," I stand up. "Let me get the hypospray, okay? Stay with me, B'Elanna."  
  
Her eyes are closed when I return, but they open as I press the cool head of the hypospray against her neck. "Better?"  
  
"Better," she says.  
  
I resist the urge to crawl into bed with her and wrap my arms around that suddenly frail body.   
  
"You need to be careful," I tell her. "There is a chance that you might experience hemorrhaging."  
  
"Hemorrhaging?"  
  
"Unfortunately that's a side-effect of the de-assimilation process."  
  
"Tom..." she looks green and again, I leap to my feet to grab a bucket. I make it back just in time and she retches before lying back down. I go into the bathroom, clean the bucket and bring her back a towel, soaked in warm water.  
  
"Here," I help her sit up, and then gently wipe her lips, chin and cheeks. "Do you want some water, B'Elanna?"  
  
She nods, but holds my hand.  
  
"You have to let me go," I say gently. "Let me get you some water."  
  
I am half way out of the room when she says in a strong, clear voice, "I remembered you, Tom."  
  
I turn around, "What?"  
  
"Some days, I remembered you," she smiles shyly. "Some days I was Borg but other days, I was B'Elanna Torres and knew it. And those were the best days. I remembered you."  
  
I nod and go to the replicator.  
  
"Glass of water, slightly warm and sweetened with a bit of honey," I say. The glass materializes and I take it. My hand trembles slightly as I go back into the bedroom.  
  
"Here," I sit on the bed and place the glass next to her lips. B'Elanna takes it in her shaking hands, nearly spilling most of the liquid on herself.  
  
"Let me get you another nightgown," I say.  
  
"No," she puts her hand on my thigh. "Please, stay with me."  
  
I have never been able to resist those eyes so I help her lie down and then I curl up next to her, careful not to touch.  
  
****  
  
The captain's expression is that of someone who has just sucked on a lemon. Her hand is curled around a mug of coffee as she sits in her chair, still in robe and nightgown.   
  
"You wanted to see me?" I ask.  
  
"Yes," she says. "Please sit."  
  
I can tell this isn't a social call; she doesn't want to talk about Fair Haven or even about our plans to trade with the Narsians in a couple days.   
  
Since returning from the Borg ship, she has remained in relative isolation, recovering slowly and seeing only Chakotay and the Doctor.  
  
I sit. Her expression doesn't change.  
  
Definitely not the time to talk about a party in the mess hall. Something is going on. And it's not going to be good.  
  
"Tom, you had some misgivings about our recent mission to the Borg cube," she begins.  
  
"Some, yes," I admit. "Why?"  
  
"I get the feeling, Tom, that you don't like me very much," Janeway shifts position. "Is that right?"  
  
Damn if she isn't perceptive. I've spent all of twenty minutes with her since her return and she picks up on the one thing I don't want her to know.  
  
So much for hiding my real feelings.  
  
At least when B'Elanna accuses me of deception, I can point out this particular moment when Janeway read my mind and emotions completely.  
  
I imagine mind reading is yet another course offered to those on the command track and I also suppose Janeway got an A too.  
  
"So what changed, Tom?" Janeway asks.   
  
Where to start? I mean, honestly, questioning the decisions of your commanding officer is one thing; telling her about it is another.  
  
I take a deep breath.  
  
"I'm waiting."  
  
"I'm not sure that the Borg mission was entirely necessary," I blurt out.  
  
"So that's it? You think I put us and the ship in danger?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"We face danger every day we're in the Delta Quadrant, Tom. God knows things might not be much better in the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
"Yes, but this was a choice you made," I tell her. "We didn't have to do it. You, Tuvok and B'Elanna did not have to be assimilated. That was a choice you made."  
  
"I see," she pauses for a moment. "So it's B'Elanna then..."  
  
"Not B'Elanna," I shake my head. "The crew, all of us. We all count, Captain, and I sometimes wonder if you think we matter at all."  
  
"How dare you question me like that?" she is furious. She slams the empty coffee mug down on her table and stands with a little difficulty. "My sole responsibility is, and always will be, this crew."  
  
"Even when it means a direct confrontation with the Borg that could have been avoided?"  
  
Janeway is pale and I spring to my feet.  
  
"You are tired," I tell her.  
  
She pushes me away, some of the old fire returning to her eyes.   
  
"Tom, you may not believe this, but I always act in the best interests of this crew. You may not always agree with me, but believe me, I never do anything without first thinking of every person on this ship," her voice is low but firm.  
  
"You weren't there when Chakotay was facing the Borg queen," I tell her. "Those were probably the longest ten minutes of my life. They certainly were for Harry and Chakotay. Chakotay doesn't even know what he would have done if the plan hadn't succeeded at the last minute. Likely, we would have all been assimilated and without the luxury of a neural suppressant."  
  
"I apologize," Janeway turns her back to me. "It could not have been easy for you, but I stand by my decision, Tom, and I expect you to respect my command."  
  
"You never have to doubt my loyalty," I answer. "But I do have the right to question an order if I think it is to the detriment of the crew."  
  
"Do you?" she turns back around, her eyes slightly amused. "It's all right, Tom. I understand. If you ever have a problem with something I say or do, you need to tell me. I will always listen."  
  
"I suppose that's all I can ask."  
  
Janeway finds her way back to her chair, sinks back, and closes her eyes.   
  
"You're dismissed," she says in a faint voice.  
  
I stand up and head towards the door, but pause when Janeway says, "Tom?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am?" I turn. Her eyes are still closed, but her voice is much stronger now.  
  
"That pip, it looks good on you," she says.  
  
The comment is unexpected and I have to wonder if it's a threat, but Janeway's expression relaxes as her eyes open.  
  
"You earned it, Tom," she says. "I appreciate what you are saying and you may be right. You need to remember that there is only one captain on this ship."  
  
I swallow hard, "Understood."  
  
"Good," she says. "Now get out of here."  
  
****  
  
B'Elanna is waiting. She sits on the sofa, dressed in a set of pajamas I have never seen before: navy blue, long sleeves and long pants. Her shirt is buttoned to her throat and I find this odd; B'Elanna has always been one for less.   
  
"Did you and the Captain have a good talk?" B'Elanna asks hoarsely as I sit on the sofa next to her. I gently lift her legs and put them on my lap, massaging her feet. She sighs.  
  
"You could say that," I answer, not willing to reveal more information than that. There is no need for B'Elanna to know how much I resented the captain during their absence.  
  
"Anything serious?"  
  
"No," I reply.   
  
We sit in silence for a moment. B'Elanna's jaw moves like she is trying to find the words to speak.  
  
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.  
  
"Um, what was it like when I was gone?" she asks, running her hand through her hair.   
  
"The same," I answer carefully.  
  
"Write any new holoprograms?"  
  
"No. How could I? My inspiration was gone."  
  
B'Elanna offers me a smile. Most people would never think that B'Elanna would fall for the sappy stuff, but take it from me, she adores it as much as the next woman.  
  
"Honestly?"  
  
I nod, "Honestly. Harry and I tried Captain Proton once, but our hearts weren't in it. I guess playing hero didn't make a whole lot of sense."  
  
"Did you do anything at all?" B'Elanna leans forward, resting her elbows on her upper thighs.  
  
"Well, it was business as usual. We found a planet with plenty of dilithium close to the surface, so you shouldn't have to worry about a shortage for quite a while."  
  
"That's good to hear," B'Elanna reclines. Her eyes close and I notice that her face is draining of color.  
  
"B'Elanna, are you all right?"  
  
"Just sleepy. Talk to me," she whispers.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Anything," she mumbles.  
  
So I start talking. I tell her about our days on Voyager while she, the Captain and Tuvok were gone. I don't know if she hears me as I tell her about the nightmares, the memories and then, I lightly touch upon my fears. Her eyes open slightly.  
  
"Are you all right?" I ask again.  
  
"Just tired," she says. "Did you really think about me that much?"  
  
"More."  
  
"Good answer," a shadow of a smile crosses her face.  
  
In some ways, this feels very much like a first date, this getting reacquainted process. Our conversation has all the feelings of old friends and some of the awkwardness of new romance. I can't help but think I'm either trying too hard or not hard enough. No matter, from whichever angle you look at the situation, it feels strained and uncomfortable at random intervals. I am not sure where the tension comes from, whether it is my uneasiness about the identity and personality of the woman sitting in front of me or is it her, pushing me away and not allowing me to share her experiences.  
  
B'Elanna tips her head back against the sofa. Her hair is growing back quickly, thanks to a growth hormone provided by the Doctor. Definitely, she is looking more like B'Elanna, and when she is quiet like this, I can forget the Borg drone with B'Elanna's eyes.  
  
"That feels good," she says. "Relaxing."  
  
"Glad you like it," I grin back as I move my hands up and down the soles of her feet and then, gradually up to her calves. "Your muscles are tight, B'Elanna."  
  
"Anxiety, I suppose."  
  
"You need to relax. A trip to the beach, maybe?"  
  
B'Elanna's face darkens and she bites her lip; she looks away. I lean forward and take her chin in my hand and turn her face towards me.  
  
"What is it?" I ask.  
  
"I don't...," she chokes.   
  
"What?" more urgently, more distressed.  
  
"You said the beach," she says. "But how can we? You can't even stand the sight of me."  
  
I recoil. Her tone is more sad and contemplative than angry, but she is right. How many times have I averted my eyes because I'm afraid of seeing the Borg? I can't help it even though I know it's wrong. Even worse, I did not think B'Elanna would sense my aversion.  
  
But once again, women have an uncanny second sense about things like this; it's useless to hide and I am a fool for even trying.  
  
"That's not true," I answer flatly.   
  
"I saw it in sickbay," she says. "When I woke up and you were staring at me, it was as if you didn't trust me, didn't know me."  
  
It's no use lying to B'Elanna. She is right; we both know it.   
  
"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I didn't mean to hurt you."  
  
"We do that a lot, don't we?" she doesn't sound sad, merely contemplative. "We do our best to wound and then pretend nothing ever happened."  
  
Her sentiment is the same that has run through my head repeatedly during the time she was away. For once, we're on the same wavelength and from the tone of her voice, I know she wants to work towards changing the situation.  
  
"Yes," I say. "But I'd like to change that."  
  
"Me too," her eyes flutter again.   
  
I caress her feet a little more and then slip my hands up inside of her pant   
legs. She nearly jumps out of her skin and I withdraw my hands.  
  
"B'Elanna?"  
  
"It's all right," she says quickly. "I'm sorry. I guess, I didn't expect that."  
  
Skin to skin, the feeling I most relish, and the way I feel closest to B'Elanna,   
and she tells me she did not expect it.  
  
I immediately push away my hurt feelings because B'Elanna is biting her lip, looking uneasy. She still doesn't trust me.  
  
I don't blame her. I don't trust me either.  
  
"You want to talk about it?" I ask.  
  
"About?"  
  
"Your experience. We haven't even touched on it yet."  
  
"The Borg, you mean. It's okay to say the word, Tom," there's an edge to   
B'Elanna's voice. Her lip curls slightly, her nostrils flare; this is all B'Elanna, no Borg influence in her flushed cheeks, hard eyes and tense muscles.   
  
It is a slightly frightening thought - B'Elanna's temper is now an integral part of what is Borg. At least you can take the Borg out of B'Elanna but if I understand the process of assimilation properly, it's not possible to take the B'Elanna out of the Borg.  
  
"I'm sorry," I figure I can just make a recording of that phrase and play it often. I have a feeling I'm going to need to use it on a regular basis to get myself back into B'Elanna's good graces.  
  
Because, damn, I want to be trusted, wanted, needed, loved - all of these things - by B'Elanna.  
  
B'Elanna rests her head on her palm, her expression growing more meditative.  
  
"It was different," she says with no trace of irony. "Different from anything I've ever experienced before."  
  
"Bad?"  
  
"Sometimes," she says. "The actual assimilation process, that was painful."  
  
"So Seven was wrong?"  
  
"Yes, Seven was wrong," B'Elanna answers. "During assimilation, it was as if I was being squeezed and pulled in a million different directions and sometimes, I was pulled and pushed at the same time. And it was cold, Tom, so cold. I never thought about it before, but all those wires, that... armor... it was not comfortable and never warm."  
  
"I wouldn't imagine so," I answer.  
  
"The neural suppressant the Doctor gave us before leaving... it worked some days and sometimes not. Some days I would wake up as B'Elanna Torres and I would know that I was B'Elanna. Those were the best days because I remembered Voyager, remembered Janeway and Tuvok, and I knew why I was on the cube. It was those other days, those when I was just a drone, everything was so mechanical. I just did and I don't know why. And I don't think I ever questioned; it was as if the thought of self-will did not exist. Those were the most frightening days."  
  
"Oh B'Elanna," I reach forward and take her hand.  
  
"And we didn't always remember on the same day and that was tricky," B'Elanna says. "Sometimes I would remember, but Janeway and Tuvok would not and I had to be very careful around them so they would not turn me in to the Collective and then other days, it was the other way around. You never could tell."  
  
"But you're home now."  
  
"Yes," B'Elanna says. "It is warm here."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
I weave my fingers in between hers and hold them tightly. I let her go once and damn if I do it again. Next time she decides to do something foolish like getting assimilated, I'm going with her.  
  
I was a coward the last time but never again.  
  
"Tom, this is not going to be easy," she says. "Being back here, I mean."  
  
"I realize that."  
  
"I'm going to need you," B'Elanna's voice is very soft. "Will you help me?"  
"Yes, of course," I tell her. As if there is any doubt at all. There are still questions in my mind about her time on the Borg cube, things I want the answers to, but it will all come in good time; when B'Elanna is ready to share with me and not before then. I will not push this time because for once, I know we're in something together.  
  
"I'm sorry if you look at me and see Borg," B'Elanna says. "I understand that it might take a while before you can..."  
  
"No," I breathe. I lean forward and brush her lips with mine. "I'm wrong, B'Elanna, and I know that."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
I slowly unbutton the top of her pajamas; she watches intently, her eyes never straying from mine. I push the shirt off of her shoulders and run my fingers over the patchwork of purple, green, blue and yellow bruises which cover her throat, breasts, stomach and arms. I am careful not to press too hard. My lips run up and down her torso; her fingers find their way into my hair and then I inch my way back up to look her in the eye.  
  
"I love you, B'Elanna," I tell her. "All of you, Borg, Klingon, human, I love all of you."  
  
This time when I kiss her, she kisses back.  
  
****  
  
"I love sand between my toes," B'Elanna presses her foot deeper into the sounds, watching as the sand squeezes up between the said toes. I crouch down and pile sand on top of her foot.  
  
"What are you doing?" she squeals.  
  
"Don't move," I tell her. I grab the yellow plastic pail and fill it with salty water.   
  
"Tom," she says, half-warning and half-laughing.   
  
I pour the water over her.   
  
"Tom!" she is laughing now and lunges towards me. I grab her around the waist. Holding B'Elanna. Feeling her body press against me, knowing that nothing can touch us in this moment. Everything said and done in the past has come to this point.  
  
We are not perfect yet. God only knows when we'll get to the point where we can trust and confide entirely in each other, but we have made a start and that's all that really matters now.  
  
"I saw the blueprints for the house," she says. "They look good."  
  
"Thanks. They'll be even better now that you are back..."  
  
Her arms snake around my neck. I can still feel the uncertainty in her, the vulnerability that she hides beneath a red-hot temper. I kiss her forehead, my lips tasting B'Elanna mixed with salt.  
  
"I missed you," I tell her.  
  
She cups my face in her warm, muddy hands.  
  
"I missed you too," she whispers back.  
  
~ The End ~  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
